The Other Side of Dark
by dragongirl5k5
Summary: They say we're all haunted by those we couldn't save. But for Reid, this is all too literal. He sees the dead. They come to him, bloody and restless, with visions of remorse and injustice. He is the only one who can help them. Can the team save him first?
1. Chapter I: Awake in a Nightmare

_My first Criminal Minds story. I am a HUGE fan though, so I'm no stranger to the fandom. Inspiration from this came from a book I was reading, The Other Side of Dark. (Creatively ironic, I know.) I was going for creepy, suspenseful, and emotionally damaged Reid. I hope I did it justice._

_The fate of this story rests in the reviewers hands. I apologize for any spelling or grammar errors I missed. Read and hopefully, enjoy(:_

_A/N: Just some back round knowledge. This takes place around the time of Season 6. JJ is still there, Reid's mother died, and he took a leave of absence without telling anyone exactly why. He's been gone almost a year. They assume it was because he was mourning his mother. (Which is very, very wrong.)_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds. _

* * *

Here. Again. In this nightmare with no escape.

The temperature in the room had plummeted to frigid levels long ago and he shuddered like he was engrossed in the worst case of DTs. However, if he were to check the thermostat in the room it would read a toasty sixty degrees. Of course. Malfunction wasn't the cause of this. Not in the machinery, at least.

Power of the mind had always been something that eternally intrigued him - at the same time, frightened him to the bone. He saw what any genius could do with a little planning and insanity. Life in the BAU had taught him that, if nothing else.

Knowledge is a gift. Only to those who use it wisely. Otherwise, it is a curse.

Reid had feared for his own sanity all throughout his adolescence and adulthood. He knew all too well the statistics of inheriting his mother's paranoid Schizophrenia.

At the thought of his deceased mother, Reid chokes on his own thoughts. He missed her so much it ached. Guilt of not having visited as much, for putting her in a home, for not taking care of her and attempting to have his own life instead...

_What life? Is this a life anymore?_

_Stop, _Reid ordered himself. _Stop thinking about these things. Just let me be. Let me be. Let me be._

He didn't want to think about the present. Didn't want to remember why he was here, why he wasn't at his apartment curled calmly around a cup of warm coffe on his couch, watching an episode of House, M.D. or History Channel documentary-

_You can't forgot. You can't forget those faces. Disfigured and grotesque, like a tortured Tim Burton fiction. You can't forget. You can't deny._

_Shut up! _he silently begged, repressing every sickening image that sprang to his mind at the instigation of his rationality. _I'm normal! I'm just your average, genius IQ, FBI agent. That's all!_

_Liar, liar, liar_

Reid yelped when a large crash resounding from the other side of the room. "No..." he breathed, hands beginning to quake like that of a rumbling drum. "No..."

Shuffling steps patted across the glass-sharded floor from where the vase had been knocked and shattered. Whatever bare feet pranced over top the razor-sharp edges of death felt no pain. Bled no blood.

"Please," Reid gasped, wiring his eyes shut so tight the unshed tears burned against his icy skin. He wanted to scream until his throat was raw. But his teeth chattered so incessantly, all he managed was a slur of whimpers and broken pleads.

Never helped. Never listened to his earnest begs, not even when they turned to terrified wails.

Footsteps. How he loathed the sound of feet touching the floor in a rhythmic pace. Feet that weren't there. Feet that weren't real.

__

Not real. Not real. Go away. Go away.

If only he hadn't thought of it. If only he had shut down, shut up, anything to not think about it. Even if he was thinking about it now, but it was too late. Too late, too late.

Didn't matter. He knew, but he tried his might to deny, deny, deny what he knew was the terrible, frightening truth.

__

This isn't real. Can't be real. I'm just crazy! Hearing voices, seeing things.

While that was utterly unnerving it it's own very distressing way, it was a realistic reprieve from this...this _hell_.

Whispered voices in his ears. Hoarse rumbling echoing off the wall, everywhere, he can hear the despair, the misery, the blood dripping. There's no stop, no end, and it hurts, hurts, hurts.

__

Drip, drip, drip

_"AH!"_he yells, because it's all he can do to try and evade the voices surrounding, suffocating him. Suddenly the walls are too close and the cold is too chilling; he can see his ragged breath and feel every hair on his bumby skin raised in stiff shock.

"Please, please no-! Back..I- no! G-g-go-! Leave me alone!" The intruder is all too close, not just in his personal space; such boundry no longer exists. He can feel him in his mind, whispering words, words he doesn't want to hear, doesn't want to see.

Reid can _feel_ his breath right in front of him. Sense the tortured soul just a few inches above him. His eyes are still shut.

__

I don't wanna look. I don't wanna see. Don't wanna. Don't wanna.

He babbles and stutters in child-like gibberish that sounds as insane as he is. Choking on his own sobs, like a baby, he thinks, disgusted. He hasn't cried this harshly since he was a boy.

_Mom, _he weeps, beseeching his own traitorous subconscious to conjure up the one ghost he doesn't want to bury.

Mom won't come back. Mom's dead. The dead haunt, not help. _I know that better than anyone. _Dad. He had never even considered Dad, not even in his greatest moment of fear. He had long since lost the right to be considered a figure of protection and comfort in his son's mind.

For reasons that twisted his quivering heart into unimaginable shapes of pain, he thought of his team. Morgan. No one was tougher than Morgan, and he was always safe on the job with him as back up. Hotch, the big boss, not afraid; never afraid. Prentiss always calm and insightful, JJ a warm, friendly presence. Rossi, the tough and knowledgeable grandfather of the team. Garica there to lift his spirits, and Gideon, the closest thing his mind can relate to a father; always a nice comfort.

This thing, whatever it was - _a curse, a demon, I'm a monster_ - what would they say? He's crazy, needs to be institutionalized. Yes, away. Away was good. Far away where they couldn't see him like this or see the things he sees. They were his team, his family - he wanted nothing more than to walk into work tomorrow - '_Hey guys, I'm back! Temporarily indisposed, but back'_ - see all their smiles and faces; he didn't care if they told him to shut his annoying rambles or if Morgan called him 'Pretty boy' in good jest. It would be a welcome, welcome escape from this...he yearned for it so bad.

But, he had to push. Push them all away and leave. Let them think he is still grieving for his mother. Let them give him space. Wait until they give up and forget, let himself fade from their lives like bad memories did. _All just a bad memory, he wishes. _Protect them from this wretched life he lives - _live? how is this living?_ - and all the atrocities he sees.

It's a lonely sacrifice, but one he is willing to take.

__

Alone? I'm never alone.

Because they are all incredibly good-hearted and caring people. No doubt they would try, like they tried every single case, with such ferocity to save him. It was a vain attempt that he would not allow. It could only hurt them in the end - traumatize them, horrify them, torture them until all they want is...

A whimper escapes his parted lips as he shudders at the expense of his own humanity, when the ghost of fingertips graze the fringe of his hair. Hallucinations can't touch you. Can't hurt you. Right?

__

Wake up, Pretty boy.

He wants to scream himself bloody and turn, and be the brave man he wishes he were, lash out at the specter and force himself to face reality. To let himself accept, heal, and go back to the way things were.

__

And ruin the closest people he had to a family?

Reid shakes his head, chokes back the ferocious sobs tearing at the back of his throat. He feels sick, bile rising within him. But he won't let it pass, won't let it out. Won't let anything out. Not the lies, not the truth.

__

Lock it all up and throw away the key.

All his statistics and intelligence have dwindled down to nursery rhymes. Mock he would receive for reciting anything of the sort brings back fond memories to his mind. It pushes backs horrific visions of bloodstained faces and flesh as white as snow.

Those fond remembrances are what give him the strength not to scream, run, or sink into the depths of his corrupted abyss. His friends, they always managed to give him courage he never thought he possessed.

Reid breaths - _in out, in out, in out_ - and tries to gather that courage. It won't go away; no _he_, won't go away. Reid doesn't want to personify him, because that just makes him all the more real. He wants to pretend this is still a nightmare and he is just a crazy, voice-hearing, dead-seeing freak. Unfortunately, Reid was never that great at 'pretend.'

Reid remembers his mom, his friends, and a boy far exceeding his peers in grades and IQs but regretfully lonely all the same, and he tries to recall the happiest memory he owns.

He opens his eyes.

So dark, outside and in, and he hates it. Loathes the absence of light, because the dark is where he sees them _perfectly_ with so much clarity it's disturbing. His heart is throbbing in his chest so erratically he's about to burst and his tongue is bleeding - _it doesn't hurt, 'cause he's a freak, he's weak, he's afraid - _because he's bitten right through it.

Fresh blood, not his own. _It's_. Crimson running down the whole right side of _it's_ face, a mess of goo and gore with one eyeball hanging from the socket like a crude imitation of a paddle ball. The flesh of _his_ cheek is rotted and torn, chipped yellow teeth and bloodied gums visible; and God, he even _smells_ it - the rotting of flesh, stinging his eyes and he realizes he's crying, harsh pants and gasping like he can't enough air.

And Reid's immensely ashamed to say - he soiled himself. The onslaught of apprehension, fear, hate, sorrow, disgust and grief was _too_ much.

An eye like the devil itself stares at him, unwavering. Never blinking, never leaving his own. He wonders what the dead man sees with his one eye when _he_ stares at him like _he_ can see the very core of his soul. Reid's confused and sickened and most likely very much insane by this point - but he has a ghastly notion that that isn't so far from the truth.

Hair is still present on this animated corpse, brown locks tousled and short atop a dead field of flesh. There is one bald spot though where the hair is ripped out and his skull is _literally_ cracked open, _God_; there's a mesh of brain protruding from the wound.

Dead hands reach for him. It was an incredibly slow, arduous movement and Reid watches it like a frozen reflection of himself, stiff and aghast. _Touch him. _With hands that were rotted jokes of what an arm is supposed to be, index finger missing from the left. Raw bone stuck out and for a measely second of time he swears a fly attracts to the mess of dead skin and old blood. _No way. Not real. Go away._

His pants are soiled. His dignity all but lost. Courage has fled. His fond memories hide, too scared of the present to peek from under the bed. Sanity is fleeting. No one is listening. No one is here but him, the dark, and the dead.

Reid screams from the depths of himself and pours it out for all the world to see. A world that forgot him. Because he knows no one will hear, no will come.

No one but the whispers.

* * *

_Good? Bad? Should it be a one shot or should I continue? Review button is at the bottom. Please, don't let it starve._


	2. Chapter II: Lost Souls

_Chapter two! Thank you for the first reviews I received, and may I say, I am excited to continue this! Hopefully the more I write, the more people's attention I can gather to reel in for the ride. 'Cause that's every author's goal, right?_

_I apologize for any errors or mistakes I made. Please, read and enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: Nope. Still do not own._

* * *

Rebecca Miller, age fifteen, lived in Wilmington, Massachusetts all her life. She played basketball, texted up a massive phone bill, and enjoyed listening to Escape the Fate and The Fray. She didn't mind school, but didn't love it and got mediocre grades at best.

She was murdered by a crazed ex-military soldier suffering from psychotic rage and PTSD. An Unsub who killed three girls before her, torn by the grief of losing his beloved Muslim love, Reda. One victim was her own neighbor from across the street. The BAU caught the guy, but too late for Rebecca. Her arm had been torn from it's socket and her body stabbed to death. Blood loss had ultimately done her in.

It was sad and painful to think about, but the team at the BAU dealt with it time and time again. It still hurt every time, but that's why they take this quiet time in between cases to reflect on such, heal a little, maybe even blow off some steam. Or, at the very least, try and relax.

"All right my lovely follower, your goddess has returned with two soul-warming coffees!" Garcia announced, bouncing into the room with her usual flare. Morgan smiled, gratefully taking the offered mug.

"Thanks, Baby Girl," he murmured, taking a sip. Garcia frowned and took a seat at her desk, but faced her friend instead of the screen.

"What's wrong, my chocolate-sculpted knight? And don't you lie," she warned, before softening when she asked, "Are you still bummed about the Miller girl?"

"Yes," he admitted, but only half-heartedly. "and no."

"What is it?" Morgan sighed.

"It's just, I don't know. The leader of the police unit there is one we worked with who recognized the group. It was fun, we reconciled...but then he asked, 'Where's that Dr. Reid?' And I didn't have an answer to give..." he trails off, Garcia pursing her lips in somber understanding.

Where _had_ Reid gone? None of them knew. None them have had contact with him for seven months. Nearly a year. And about nine months ago, was when the tragic death of Diana Reid had hit the young genius hard. Suicide. Killed herself in a psychotic fit, which, Morgan huffs, could have been put a bit more gently.

Nevertheless, Reid was allowed to take as much time off as he wanted, but he didn't; not at first. But something changed in the kid, something in his eyes that Morgan couldn't place. Reid never gave them the chance either, because he took a leave of absence with no decent explanation beforehand. Only Hotch did he give this, in letter form at that. He had been distancing himself for a while as it was, and Morgan wished he could have caught it quicker, maybe done something...

"You miss him. We all do," Garcia admonished, knowing what he was thinking. Creepy how she did that sometimes. "I miss my boy, too. And I'm worried."

"I just wish we knew where he was. I thought it might have been 'cause of his mom, but it's more than that. He hasn't contacted us in so long and even before-" He sighs in frustration, cutting himself off. "Need to do something."

Garcia nods slowly, before a deliberately wide grin split across her face. Quick as lightning, she spun her chair around and began tapping at the keys with ferocious force.

Morgan's eyes narrowed. He knew that look. "What are you up to?"

"I'm going to find him," she tells him, almost giddily, "no matter what invasion of privacy it is classified under."

"Seriously?" He asks, and uh oh, the grin is contagious. "You can do that?"

"Of course, insolent fool," she scoffs. "Your goddess has infinite abilities. However, as Hotch stated many moons ago, Reid just needed space and we should leave him to sort it out for himself. That given time has dwindled, and I assume even Mr. Bossman would agree this _needs_ to be done."

Morgan laughs, gaining another appreciation for their team's mad hacker. "I bow down humbly, oh mighty Internet queen."

"As you should." Garcia then looked puzzled, fingers pausing from their relentless pounding on the keys. "That's odd..." she murmurs.

"What is it, Baby Girl?" Morgan questions at her unique reaction. Unique for even Garcia.

"According to this..." she trails off, eyes widening in concern and licking her lips before speaking again, "Oh my..."

"What? Talk to me, Baby Girl." Morgan says, weary now of what she found. Heading to her desk, he stands next to her and lays a gentle hand on her shoulder, "What did you find?"

"Spencer Reid's currently place of residence is Amadeus Mental Institution, home for the criminal insane, mentally ill, or dysfunctional persons." Garcia's hand comes to cover her mouth," Oh God..."

"Damn it," Derek swears, voice barely above a whisper. No, no it can't be. "Shit, you don't think..." He doesn't finish because he doesn't have to say it. They knew all too well of their former teammate's dread of inheriting his mother's paranoid schizophrenia. Had the worst come to pass?

"His records are sealed," Garcia goes on, trying to research more. "I mean, _sealed _sealed. No FBI access or anything without the patient's or his attending doctor's consent."

Morgan's face twists into silent indignation. "Reid _is_ a doctor," he snarls, fists clenching. "And he's _not_ insane."

Garcia nods in fierce agreement. Not her baby boy, no matter what Reid was always going to be her quirky little nerd. One thing about this still bothered her, though. "He didn't tell us. Not any of us."

"Wanted to hide it," Morgan realizes, and curses himself for not noticing something was so seriously off sooner. "Pushed us all away, tried to cover it up as nothing. We all knew he wasn't fine, we just assumed his mother... We're so fucking stupid," he growls, more angry at himself than anyone. He's a profiler for God's sake, he should have been aware the_ moment_ he saw the signs...

Reid was never even much of a liar, anyway!

"Poor baby!" Garcia exclaims, her heart immediately reaching out for her imprisoned genius. "Dealing with whatever this is, all alone."

"Maybe not..." Morgan mumbles. At Garcia's inquiring stare, he elaborates, "I think Gideon knows."

Garcia ponders that, then nods, finding it very likely. She pauses though, thinking aloud, "But Gideon can't visit him all the time, and his flight record indicates no visit to the institution's general area."

"You hacked his flight records?" Morgan asks, but there's a small smirk on his face as he accuses.

Garcia shrugs, mysterious smile on her face, "I need to know where to send his holiday gift baskets and I don't trust him to give me the correct location anymore."

"Not since you sent him that coupon for the 'adult toy collection.'" Morgan scoffs. Garcia bats her eyes in mock innocence, returning her attention to the screen. He won't say, but he is extremely grateful for her lightening the mood, no matter how slightly.

"Whatever the case, we need to talk to Hotch about this. I don't like it, not one bit," Morgan sighs, skimming over the brief information the text on the computer screen gave. "We need to go see him," he states resolutely. "As soon as possible."

Garcia can't help but agree. In the pit of her gut, she knew with rising dread that something bad was going to happen. Something incredibly bad that she couldn't fathom quite yet. If only she could really see it all from her safe little computer desk.

* * *

"Institutionalized?" JJ demands, being the first to speak. "You have got to be joking!" No one misses the tiny plead in her voice.

"'Fraid not." Morgan reveals sullenly. "We tried to get more information on him, his condition and status, but it was all majorly sealed. Inaccessible."

"I don't like that," Hotch rumbles from behind his desk. He shakes his head in palpable distress.

"Reid could have sealed his own files," Prentiss suggests, trying to reason what her ears just heard. "Maybe he wants it to be private. What if they are sealed for a reason?"

"Yeah. And whatever it is, I'm finding out," Morgan announces gruffly. No one pipes up to argue; if anything, everyone in the room is willing to volunteer to see what was straining their youngest member.

"We can't all go barging in there if there _is _something is seriously wrong with him," Hotch's voice states, booming voice thundering above any protests or quarrels. "If anything, right now, all we need to know is that he is okay. Morgan and Garcia, you go and tell him it's to reassure our concerned consciences."

Prentiss looks like she's about to say something, but shuts her mouth the next second. For right now, it was the best solution they had. Besides, Hotch as infuriating usual as it is, was right. All they needed to know was that Reid was okay.

"What I want to know, is what happened to his apartment?" J.J. wonders aloud.

"According to the info Garcia brought up, it's still in his name," says Morgan.

"How can that be?" Prentiss contemplates, growing wary of this increasingly odd situation. "He's not working, no pay, and is indisposed employment wise. How _could_ he still be renting?"

"We're going to find out," Hotch promises, determined glint in his dark eyes. No one could deny that they all felt a family instinct to be protective of the youngest of their group. His abrupt absence had been unnerving as it was, and now _this_?

Well, no more. No more secrets, no more lies. Tomorrow, J.J. and Prentiss would be investigating the mysterious appearing rent while Garcia and Morgan visited the lost boy himself. Leaving Hotch to pick up the slack around the office.

* * *

Amadeus Mental Institution is in it's own little world, on the outskirts of a town, secluded from the rest of the world. Nice, open clearing in surrounding forestry which is supposedly good for the patients. Lack of urban distractions and stressors, a peaceful place for them to relax.

Morgan whistles, driving up the long, winding path that led to the large, grey brick building. "Looks like something straight out of Bram Stoker."

"Can't wait to be greeted by the man in the cape with a think, Transylvanian accent. 'Good evening!'" Garcia quips, doing her best Dracula impersonation. Morgan can't help but chuckle.

"Yeah..." he cuts off, falling into his own dreaful thoughts.

"Hey," Garcia consoles, putting a hand on his toned shoulder, "we're all concerned. Whatever is wrong, we can help him."

Morgan sighed, "I believe we can fix it. I need to."

"We can," Garcia assured, smiling, "Nothing is impossible for I and my shining Dark Knight!" Morgan shook his head, grinning with newfound encourage. He did believe it; they could help Pretty boy, if he lets them.

Nagging at the back of his mind though, was something darker that seemed to lurk behind these walls. Something he was afraid no medication could mend. A thousand possibilities had crossed his mind. What if he had been traumatized? Or had Reid's worst fears come to pass, and he inherited the paranoid voices which plagued his mother for years? His mother, who tragically, had died not too long ago, also. And where was his team when all this was occurring?

Clueless. Unaware.

So, who had been there to support and take notice of the young genius's increasing path of destruction?

Fucking _no _one. And that's what bothered and angered Morgan most of all. He might have had Gideon at the least, for maybe a portion of the time, whenever he visits. Why hadn't he just told them what was wrong? Had he truly thought after all they had been through together, no one would understand? Think that no one would be willing to help?

_Reid, you're a genius, but you're still a dumbass._

They arrived shortly thereafter. Passing several patients and doctors on their way in, Garcia took notice of the normalcy of this facility. Well, as normal as things went in a mental institution. The residents seemed mostly calm and content - some happy, even. Maybe this wasn't some freak conspiracy.

All they had to do was flash their IDs at the entrance to get past the cautious guard at the glass door. Garcia gave the glass a sour look, wondering what genius architect came up with that for mental hospital design.

"May I help you?" a young woman asked, blond hair tied in a neat bun. Her nurse's gown was pristine and white, prim and professional to a point.

"We're hear to see Spencer Reid," Garcia says, gesturing to her and Morgan. The nurse gives them a polite, but weary, smile. "Do you have an appointment?"

"No, but-" Garcia is cut off when Morgan flashes her his FBI badge, continuing, "We're from the FBI. Spencer Reid is a colleague of ours. I'm Agent Morgan, this is Agent Garcia. We'd like to see him, if you don't mind."

Nurse Jean gapes for a few mute seconds before pursing her lips and excusing herself, "One moment, please." She then turns her back and picks up the phone on the edge of her desk.

"Isn't that weird?" Garcia mumbles to her side, so that the nurse can't hear.

"Hm?"

"Well, it looked like she hasn't been working here all that long, yet she knew exactly what to do in this certain situation. Like Reid's name or FBI visitors was some kind of code," she whispers, conspiracy theory resurfacing. Morgan digests all this in silence, waiting for the young miss to be done with her call.

Six minutes later, a man arrives at the front desk to greet them. "Good morning, Agent Morgan and Garcia, I presume?" They nod and he reaches out to shake each of their hands. "Forgive me for the wait, but I do believe we need to discuss some things before you go and visit Spencer."

"Like what?" demands Morgan.

"Let's talk in my office," the doctor suggests, glancing around the halls, "it's much more private." They take the hint, unwilling to possibly upset any sensitive clientele roaming around.

"Allow me to inrtoduce myself. I'm Dr. Neal Fowlers, director of this facility." he greets, as he leads them into his office on the first floor. "Please, have a seat. Now, what business do you have with Spencer?"

Morgan raises an eyebrow at that, "He's our friend and team member. What more reason do we need than that?"

"I didn't mean to offend you," he offers, holding up his hands in a defensive gesture, "I only ask in the best interest of our patients. It is to my understand that this is your first time visiting."

"Well, you see, the thing is..." Garcia explains, "Reid never told us he was here... We recently found out, and wanted to check on him, you know?" Her voice is earnest and sincere, and Dr. Fowlers doesn't look all that shocked to see it.

"I suspected as much," he sighs, "I informed Nurse Jean to contact me if Spencer recieved any visitors regarding the FBI, besides Agent Gideon."

"Gideon? So, he did know Reid was here," Morgan curses aloud. "And he didn't tell us either."

"Why wouldn't Reid want us to know?" Garcia questions with underlining forlorn, before her eyes widen in sudden occurrence, "Is Gideon the one who institutionalized him?" she asks fearfully.

"Heavens no," Dr. Fowlers assures, "he didn't come for at least a month or so after he was admitted. Spencer came on his own accord," he informs evenly.

The room is quiet after that, an awkward silence that only proves to heighten the intensity in the room. This Dr. Fowlers is ready to drop a bomb, Morgan knows it. He's just not all that prepared for what he is about to hear...

"What... why is Reid here?" Garcia asks, directly addressing the niggling question which had been haunting them since they arrived. Worn eyes stared at them with a mixture of pity and regret, and Dr. Fowlers sighs long and hard once again.

"Spencer Reid's case is..." He pours himself into the seat behind his desk, folding his hands neatly together on the broad, oak surface, "Delicate, to say the least."

"His mother was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia." Morgan mutters from his cushioned seat in front of him, "Is it that? Did he inherit it?"

"No," Neal answers, and they're both relieved but his tone is not one that gives them any sense of triumph. "Spencer's case is...complicated, at best."

"Stop beating around the bush, doc," Morgan snaps, tired of these indirect responses. "What's wrong with our friend?"

Fowlers looks at him, gray eyes as dark and cold as stone. The glare is only intensified by the doctor's next words, "Spencer suffers from anxiety, insomnia, delusions, hyperventilation, panic attacks and schizophrenic tendencies," he elaborates, voice a cruel mock of professionalism.

Garcia is speechless, lip quivering with horrified understanding. _Oh, Reid..._ she thought, wishing she could she her boy now more than ever. _You poor, poor thing..._

Morgan is the one to find his voice first, and he forces himself to stay composed when he asked the doctor the most frightening question of all, "What kind of delusions?"

Neal Fowlers face was a mask of grave sorrow and ferocious trepidation. "He... Spencer's case is one like which I have never seen in my decades of work with the mentally unstable... Spencer, himself, is a remarkable young man, sharp wit and amazing intelligence, but," he pauses, emotions that Morgan can't quite place a hindrance in his voice, "..so tortured within his own mind."

"What's wrong with him?" Morgan demands, nearly shouting.

Fowlers's face, somber and an immaculate field of uncertainty and grim knowing, chilled the two agents to the bone.

"Spencer is convinced that he is literally haunted by the dead. He claims to see...visions of the deceased, mangled and disfigured in all their gruesome glory. And for the most part, they're all young and their deaths were untimely and horribly undeserved. People who shouldn't have gone."

"And do you know how I know?" His voice was hoarse now, thick with grim sentiments, "Spencer; he says they speak to him, whisper things. He can tell you their names, their families, their dreams. It drives him insane; I see it. Muttering about people no one saved, people who are _dead_."

Whatever anger and impatience Morgan had felt, whatever major blow Garcia had been waiting for; all their expectations had been shattered by this. Seeing the dead? Haunted? Ghosts whispering to him through the night?

"Oh God..." Garcia gasped, hand covering her mouth, mortified.

"Like Sixth Sense or some shit?" Morgan murmurs, in complete disbelief. "You have to be joking!" he accuses, begging it to be all some crude as hell joke.

Those gray eyes tell less lies than a dead man could. "I wish it were. From what time I've spent with Spencer, he is an intelligent young man. But he is locked inside a very dark, dark place, Agent Morgan. A prison I, as a certified doctor and human being, cannot even hope to understand."

"What do you mean...?" Garcia mumbles, swiping at the unshed tears beginning to prick at her eyes.

Worn irises stare with something older than dirt, and suddenly the no older than middle-aged man looked a thousand years more. "What can be said for a man who sees death over and over again? Delusion or not, I cannot imagine what Spencer visualizes when he shuts his eyes. He... I've spoken to his attending psychiatrist. His descriptions are..._too_ accurate. Too real. Too horrifying."

"H-how...?" Garcia gulps, the doctor's words echoing through her head, "How could something like this happen? Why Reid?" she sniffs, wiping the excess sadness leaking from behind her spectacles. Morgan's hand is a warm comfort on her shoulder, but not enough.

"I don't know," Neal says quietly, and it might be three of the most horrible words ever formed, "And that is the worst of it. We don't know. We can't help him. All we can do is watch...and wait," the last too words are whispered so softly, almost inaudible. Morgan just manages to catch a wisp of the cryptic words.

Brow furrowed, he responds with a baffled, "What does that mean?"

The most perturbing thing of all is the lack of answer he receives.

It's a long time before anyone tries to speak. Dangerous and guilty thoughts clouded the agents' minds, but neither could ignore the more pressing need to see Reid for themselves. Composed now, tears erased, Garcia asks fretfully, "Can we see him now?"

Dr. Fowlers gives them a bland look. "I suppose it would be redundant to not do so, after this." Morgan just barely bites back a scoff at the prudent words. Rejected or not, he would see Reid anyway. Regardless of this doctor's permission or not.

Fowlers led them up to the third floor by elevator, passing many disgruntled and unfocused patients on their way. Garcia tried to ignore the half-glazed eyes and relentless stares and thinks about her own lost genius.

"Dr. Reid was given one of our more accommodating rooms," the doctor tells them conversationally, when the doors open up. Morgan is not sure he likes the sound of that or the nonchalant tone Fowlers used.

"Accomadating?"

Giving him a sideways glance from the corner of his eyes, Fowlers says simply, "Insulated walls. So no one is too disturbed by...the screams." Garcia coughs then, choking back any snappish retorts or cries of pity at the doctor's indifferent reply. He portrayed Reid like such a victim; who wouldn't be if no one aided their screams?

Garcia hadn't been sure what to expect when she entered the room, but this was not remotely close. No padded walls, no stereotypical endless white and nothingness. But the room was scarcely furnished, and to be honest, looked barely lived in. Simple bed, simple furnishings, a few scattered books on the shelves, a chess board...

Had you scanned the room like any other visitor, you would have missed him. Would have thought the room was as completely empty and lifeless as it looked. Which was just sad, in ways the two agents couldn't quite place. Morgan was the first to spot the object of their concern, there, leaning listlessly by the window on the far side of the wall. Garcia gasped, while he just stared and took in what Spencer Reid had become.

His hair was longer, somewhere near the bottom of his neck now, even more unkempt than he remembered. Skin so pale snow would shiver just looking at him, and he knows that this is no where near the picture of perfect health. And his eyes... Morgan can't suppress a shudder. His expressive hazel eyes are so dimmed and darker now, if that's even genetically possible. They say that eyes are like the windows to the soul. If that was true...what did it say about Reid's?

Maybe they couldn't see the type of horrors Reid saw, but they were surely seeing a ghost.

For this Spencer Reid was merely a phantom of his former self.

* * *

_Done! I'm so happy I finished! Long, I know, but I had to get that all out in one chapter! Things are getting good, at least, for you readers I hope? Leave me your opinions, please!_

_The review button at the bottom? It's dying of a broken heart. It needs your love(:_


	3. Chapter III: Salvation

_Warning: Unexpectedly long chapter, character whomping, and child kidnapping ensues._

_Disclaimer: Me no own._

* * *

"Spencer," Dr. Fowlers pushes past them, speaking softly as if not to frighten a small child. Reid's face whips around from the window, and for a split second there's a look of pure shock and fear flashing through his eyes. It subsides quickly, when he catches sight of the doctor.

Then, he looks past him but his eyes widen now in apprehension and surprise. Garcia won't admit how guilty that makes her feel; he's shocked just to have visitors.

"Hey, Reid," she greets, trying to sound normal, friendly. "How are... How are you doing?"

It takes a few good minutes of mind gathering, but the young genius forces a small smile and answers, "Like a king in his palace."

The two agents grin, relived to have some of the tension ebb away. It was still Spencer Reid. Underneath the fatigue, the weary facade, he is still the same quirky nerd they love. _He seems plenty stable,_ Garcia thinks ruefully. _How could they accuse him of being so nuts..?_

She wishes now she could bite her tongue.

Fowlers excuses himself, giving them some privacy. Morgan doesn't even acknowledge his leaving, eyes trained on Reid. Reid, not as challenging as before, cannot keep his gaze. He looks down, unwilling to fight. That unnerves Morgan more than anything.

"How many times have I told you not to go on wild coffee binges?" He scolds, hand on his hip like a petulant mother. "Told you one day they would lock you up for it."

Reid smiles, looking at them now, but it's terribly fake and woven. Weak, like he barely has enough to put on a show. "Yeah... Sorry."

"Been here a while?" Garcia tries conversationally. Reid studies his arm, the floor, the window again; anywhere but them. "A while...yeah."

"Reid," says Morgan quietly. Well, he always said, if you're going to grab the bull by it's horns... "Why didn't you tell us?"

Pretty boy looks up and Morgan can immediately read the apology in his face. The suffering, the ache, everything he's pushed aside to hide. Hide from them. He's letting him in now, _right now,_ even if it is just a glance. And he can't let it get away, he has to push.

"We could have helped you. You didn't have to hide like you did. We want to help you Reid. Whatever _this_ is, we are gonna help you man, I swear." Garcia nods vigorously in agreement.

Reid is conflicted, trepidation a keen gleam in his eyes. Nonetheless, he opens his mouth about to speak, only to gasp in somewhat of a mangled choking sound. Garcia jumps at the ugly noise, calling out for Reid, asking him if he's okay.

But Reid's not looking at them anymore. Reid's looking past them at the far wall, eyes so dark they were almost black. Shaking now, like a seizure, Garcia worries, panicking.

"Reid? Reid, honey, come back to us!" She calls out in distress. She doesn't know how to handle this and she hates that.

"Reid-?" Morgan tries as gingerly as possible but is cut off by another strangled sound from the genius.

"You couldn't save her," he rasps, voice cracking at the end. Morgan blinks, momentarily stunned.

"Who Reid?"

"Rebecca," he whimpers, choking on his own words, "Miller. Rebecca Miller."

Garcia's head whips around so fast, shooting Morgan a nearly frantic look. Morgan is just as shell-shocked, staring at Reid with abject horror and shock. _How could the fuck could he have known...?_

But Reid still isn't looking at them. He's looking at Rebecca.

"Oh my God..." He chokes, paling like he might throw up. "Her arm- Her arm is torn off! All that blood, Oh God..." He cries, loud now, not even realizing his own volume. "She's dead. He killed her. That soldier." His lip trembles as a single sob escapes his lips.

Morgan is frozen. He doesn't know what to say - he's too numb to respond. Terrified eyes face him. _Accusing._ "Why couldn't you save her?"

_"Why couldn't you save me?" _Is that what he's hearing from Rebecca right now?

"Why?" he demands, all clarity absent from his eyes. Reid's not here, he's somewhere dark. "Why? Why couldn't you- her arm! God, why?" _He sees her right now. Oh my God, he really sees her right now,_ Garcia realizes with overwhelming revolt, _No one can fake this. No illness can fake this. No one can show that much aghast without seeing it first. _

She had seen the crime scene photos. She knew. Morgan knew. The team knew. Reid shouldn't. Reid was here in his neat little room.

It takes two attendants to come in and calm him down. They give him a shot of some drug and Morgan winces when he sees what bit of life Reid had left in him fade. He goes blank. Not even a profiler could read him now.

He guides Garcia out in silence, since she is too choked up to move herself, openly crying. Morgan doesn't feel his eyes water but something in him snaps. _Couldn't save her. _

They pass Fowlers on their way out. He is looking at them with a grim mask of knowing as if to say, _I warned you so. _Morgan is still too disturbed to form a response, but he glares, and gives him silent determination, _We'll be back. _

They would. He promised.

* * *

The door closes with a hurried thump. He's too deaf to hear the force of it. She is still there. Armless. Lifeless. Her voice is a shrill cry in his ears, mingled with his own. _Why couldn't you save me? Why?_

"Why couldn't you?" Reid whispers so softly, only he can hear now. The strength to yell has been drained out of him, the needle embedded in his arm a dull sting against his skin. The orderly gives no soothing words of comfort, no empty promises. As soon as the fight is taken out of him, they let go, like the touch of him seared or tainted them.

Reid takes no heed and feels himself slump against the wall. At least he still has a clear view out the window. Thank God for simple pleasures. Now at least he can see the trees and see the blue, blue sky which has more color than this place ever will.

_Who were they? _he wonders now, with the drug hazing his distraught. _Who was just here? Were they here at all?_

It doesn't matter now, he supposes. For he is alone, as he usually is, and this is when the darkness comes to claim him. But he welcomes it now, for this a dreamless dark in which he sees no demons. He feels no pain. Numb has becomes such a simple pleasure.

Reid watches Rebecca Miller fade to black. Closes his eyes, and wished she too is falling to a better place. Where there is no dead girl, no missing arm, no Unsubs, no worries. He hopes she can stay there, too.

Faintly, his mind once again drifts towards visitors who might or might not have been here. They had seemed so..._alive._ He missed their warm presence. Distantly and dazedly, he ponders if they'll ever visit him again. He figures they won't.

It is the final thought he has before he slips into the darkness like a free-fall. And he dreams no dreams.

* * *

The drive back to Quantico is a silent and awkward one. Each agent is too lost in their own personal thoughts to share jabs or concur feelings on this whole ordeal. It was all so hard to believe but even harder to talk about. Speaking just made it seem all the more real.

Rossi is the one who meets them outside. Tailored suit looking as sleek as ever, he approaches them with a distinctly hopeful gait. "So...?" he tries upon greeting, but let's it trail off when he sees the expression on Garcia and Morgan's faces.

"What happened?" Rossi asks, concern furrowing the brow on his forehead. Garcia shakes her head as she trots past wordlessly.

Morgan gives him an unreadble look and asks seriously, "You ever see the Sixth Sense?"

Rossi's confusion is only met by Morgan's retreating back and he follows them apprehensively, while the two agents prepare to relay to the team the most dreadful news yet.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Reactions of everyone are as varied as Morgan thought they would be. Shock, anger, regret, remorse, and instant concern. He knows because he experienced these when he heard it himself from Fowlers himself. For him, it had mostly been anger and regret.

Anger at not noticing the truth behind the lies, and regret for not doing more. For not acting sooner, maybe saving Reid. He could never seem to save Reid properly.

"It's..." JJ is the first to speak, her voice rough with heartfelt emotion, "...unreal. Spence was so, I mean he got so distant and I figured he needed his space, but this..."

"That's exactly what he wanted us to think," Hotch sighs, assuring her she wasn't alone. "We were all in the dark. Reid wanted us that way. He didn't want us to know and was willing push everyone away to do it."

"But, why?" JJ demands, and Morgan understands her sorrow and fury; Spencer had been her little brother.

"He didn't want us to see him like that." Rossi explains, face carefully masked and serene. Behind it, Morgan can imagine the gears turning vigorously, the ideas zooming from here to there, aching to find a solution.

Morgan wishes he could unsee it. Lost and broken, Reid had looked worse than any abandoned child he'd seen left out in the cold. And those eyes, his eyes were the worst. So empty, unfocused... Like the world just left him lying there, to rot. To suffer.

_The world didn't do that. You did._

Morgan inhales sharply, warding his own wallowing thoughts away. He can't take that. Not now.

"What about his apartment?" Hotch turns towards Prentiss, vearing us to less painful subjects for the time beings. Prentiss shakes her head, arms crossed in a weary manner.

"The property is still in Reid's name, ready any time he wants to return. But the rent is being paid for by one, William Reid." Prentiss drawls, letting the team digest this.

"Reid must have gone to him and asked him to do this." Morgan says aloud.

"Well, then he must have known where Reid was? How come he didn't visit, or help him?" Garcia pressed, crying out almost angrily.

"He watched his own wife descend into the depths of schizophrenia," Rossi profiles, his words a downward spiral of tone.

Hotch adds, "He couldn't bare to watch his only son go through the same. Not again. So, he helped the only way he could. Sending him the money."

"He would have murdered someone had Spence asked, buried and all." JJ sighs despondently, "What kind of love is that?"

"The kind that wants to justify not being there for you child," Prentiss answers sourly.

Morgan silently agrees, suddenly wishing for William Reid's head on a post. Prentiss was right, it was some twisted form of love, one he'd never understand. If his son was ever in trouble, where or when or why wouldn't matter. He would be there for him no matter what. But, why should his father start now?

_Don't go down this road, _he tells himself. _Reid's made peace with the man. Leave it be._

"We could have helped..." JJ says, out of nowhere. Her face is tight and worn with impotent sadness and regret. If only she had seen what he saw, then she would have something to cry about.

"We _will _help." Hotch states, ordering almost with that deep boom of a tone he uses when things are serious or grim. It's the conviction, the fine leadership Morgan needs right now so he doesn't do something stupid. JJ checks her phone as an oncoming message buzzes in and he watches her features pull into a tight line.

"We have a case." She informs dreadfully. "Three dead boys." Morgan exhales. Couldn't catch a break this week, could they?

The world never did stop for one tragedy.

* * *

_Cleveland, Ohio. Four days later..._

The room is dimmed and dirty. A basement of some old, abandoned video game shop.

Garrett is scared, bound, and for lack of a better word; trapped. Like the dogs he had seen locked up in the pound, staring at him with those pitiful eyes. He never got it until now. Now that he's the helpless animal beaten and abused with his wrists tied together.

He whimpers, not from the pain, but because he hears the footsteps of the man who kidnapped him coming closer. This guy is freakin' Section 8. Keeps muttering about his wife leaving, taking away his son or something. What in the _hell _does that have to do with _him_, he wants to know. But he is too chicken to ask.

When the monster comes, he's smiling, smiling like maybe a dad would if Garrett knew his own. Kneels next to him, and reaches out, and he instinctively winces and twists away. This makes the monster scowl and hit him in the gut again, and he coughs at the force of the blow.

"Please, stop!" He begs. "I didn't do anything, please! Let me go..."

"Begging won't do no good. Ask Lyle, Lyle begged and begged. Cried lots more than you. Tommy though, Tommy was smart. He tried to bargain, told him he could help me bring Timmy back," the monster laughed, sneering the boy he killed. "Little liar. Lyle who cried, Tommy who lied."

The monster's smile is real wrong now, turned on him. "You're just about in the middle. Your a good boy, aren't ya' Timmy?"

"My name is not Timmy!" Garrett cries, desperately attempting to writhe free of the monster's grasp, "My name is Garrett! Not Timmy!"

"All the same..." The monster mutters, low and distant. Does he even know where he is? What he's doing? "All the same in the end."

With that, he jabs the knife into the boy's thin skin and Garrett howls in agony. It's burning and bleeding, nothing like the raw thrill his video games depicted. There was no animation to take the fall, no, what Garrett felt was uncensored, pure pain.

Oh God, he wants his mom! He hasn't said that in forever, but he needs her so bad it stings worse than his beaten body. She's shorter, she's smaller, but somehow in his mind she's an unstoppable force that will always protect him. She could beat him. He _knows_ she can. Mom!

"Please!" he croaks, feeling liquid slip from his mouth. _Uh oh._ "Please... I'm not your son. I'm not Timmy," he pleads, whimpering, sobbing. "Mom..."

"Don't call for that bitch!" The monster roars, and he winces. Uh oh, he said something wrong. "She took you away! She took you away and now your gone!"

Lashing out in his rage, Garrett tries to work his mouth fast enough to apologize or anything. He's too slow and the monster strikes, hitting him across the face twice; the stings hurts, hurts so bad.

And just like that he's gone. Raw fear grips him. His legs won't kick. His arms won't work. Oh God. He's so scared, he can't think, can't _breathe._ Doesn't want this, no! He wants to play baseball, wants to read his book, he wants to see his mom!

Everything's going black. Garrett remembers the ghost stories his cousins used to freak him out with, about things grabbing you in the dark. But, the monster can't get him here. Only the reaper. Garrett waits, trembling - if only he could tremble - for a scene out of Dante's Inferno to replay or maybe for him to see God or an angel. He doesn't know what to expect, he doesn't want to die, he sees only dark...

Until from the darkness, he fades in to a room with a bed, a table, a window he does not recognize. And a young man, with wide hazel eyes and scruffy brown hair who looks at him like he is the monster. Perhaps those broken thoughts inside his head could have been considered a prayer.

Was this his angel?

* * *

Reid breaths, deeply, when he feels the familiar chill run up his spine. He had been minding his own business, reading, as per usual. Then, he felt it; he always feels it right before. The hairs on his neck rise, his blood cold.

That's when Reid drops the book and a figure begins to fade in. Reid almost has to squint though; this one is so blurry. He has seen similar cases: it usually means the person is near death or recently dead. Grimacing, Reid wonders which is worse for the victim.

"You..." the boy, it's a boy he sees now. Christ, maybe nine? Ten? Sorrow bubbles in his gut. "Are you my angel?"

Reid wants to laugh at that. Him? An _angel_? Ha. More like a demon. Instead, all he can manage is a wry, shocked smile. "No," he tells the boy. "Just a guy."

_Sure. Average Joe that happens to see ghosts. Like you. _

The boy's forehead crinkles in confusion, and he opens his bloodstained mouth, lower lip trembling. "My heart stopped. Please, help me."

Reid opens his mouth, closes it, thinks better before turning away. His eyes are watering; three damn words. Pleading. Always pleading, wanting him to help. He can't. He wishes, he wants, but he can't.

"Please," the boy cries, despair so potent in his voice. He's been beaten, stabbed. Kidnapped, maybe. If only, if only someone had heard him scream...

"I'm sorry..." Reid whispers, feeling wetness at the edges of his eyes. Damnable eyes that show him these horrid things. "I'm so sorry..."

"Try!" The ghost sobs, begging with all his might. He wants to live so bad, Reid can sense it. See it. He feels sick to his stomach. "You have to try! Can't you do anything?"

"I can't..." His voice is so soft, desolate, helpless. He thinks the spirit senses this and it causes him to despair even more. "I'm sorry. I can't..."

"My name is Garrett!" The boy yells, and what difference does that make, he can't help. _Stop trying, I'm sorry, I want to help but... I'm useless._ "I was kidnapped by a real bad guy! The FBI is looking for me! T-they sent...t-the...BA? BAU? Is that it? Yes! Please, tell them! Can't they help me?"

Reid freezes, heart catching in his chest. BAU. _The team._ They are searching for _this _boy. The Unsub must have him. And he's dead, _just so,_ not utterly hopeless. "I..." he starts, shaking, needs to calm his breath. Could he help this boy? No. Could _they_ make it in time? Maybe. "I'm not sure...

"Try!" Garrett demands, shouting at him now. "Please, you have to..." It's all he can say before his words turn to sobs. Reid feels so lost.

Luckily, the phone is in reach and he grabs it with such hastes he nearly knocks the whole table over. Fumbling with unpracticed hands, he dials and hopes, _dear God please let this be correct_, that this is the right number. Come on Eidetic memory, don't fail him. Not now. Not with Garrett watching, begging.

_"Hello?" _A gruff voice answers, quick and breathless, like he's just run a mile. He is searching. Fast, desperate. Just as desperate as Garrett is to be found.

"Morgan," he gasps, and he has no time, he needs to spit it out. "225 Baker street. Abandoned video store. In the basement."

_"Reid?" _Morgan cries from the other end, shock and confusion evident. _"What's wrong? What are you talking about?"_

"There's no time," he cuts off, not meaning to be hurtful or curt, but. "He's there. He's dying. You have to save him!"

_"Who? Who, Reid? Who's dying?"_ His voice is panicked now, worried.

"Please, Morgan, hurry. You have to hurry, Garrett, the boy; he's dying. He was stabbed and beaten and the Unsub still has him there, you have tp hurry! Please!"

_"Reid, how do you know this..."_ He can't explain. He thinks Morgan knows this, just doesn't want to admit, doesn't want to face this truth. _"Reid-!"_

"Please," he whispers, and he is begging now, begging for Garrett, for him. He doesn't need to see anymore ghosts. "Save him."

Reid hangs up there, feeling emotionally drained. His heart swells just a tad, because maybe Morgan will be in time to save him. Maybe not. "I'm sorry," he croaks, to the all but blurry figure in the corner, "I'm so sorry." _I can't do more. I can't reach out and save you. So why are you smiling-?_

"Thank you," Garrett whispers before he fades away. To the land of living, again. If only he could have taken Reid along with him...

* * *

_Don't expect updates this fast always! I was just really, really quick with this one! Please let me know what you guys think! I crave opinions. Like the review button craves attention._

_Next time: Garrett is found. And Reid discovers the price of heroism._


	4. Chapter IV: Affliction

_Fourth installment coming your way. Just finished reading my novel, The Other Side of Dark by Sarah Smith, last night and it was amazing!(: I loved it! For those of you interested in romance, history, suspense and things that go bump in the night I highly recommend it!_

_To all those reviewing, favoriting, and altering thank you for the feedback! I'm happy knowing people are enjoying reading this as much fun as I have writing it. For any mistakes or errors I missed, I apologize._

_Disclaimer: I do not own. If I did, I'd own Reid, and die a happy person(:_

* * *

"Reid-!" Morgan yells into his cell phone, concern for the young genius overriding his general disturbance. _The boy. He knows the boy. Reid, what's wrong with you? Talk to me, please._

_"Please." _He hears him whisper at the other end of the receiver and his voice is so soft, begging like a frightened little boy. _"Save him."_

Morgan wants to say more, wants to tell Reid it's alright and feed him solaces he cannot truly give. But the line goes dead, and he is left standing frozen and alarmed, unable to move or speak. Reid's voice still ringing in his ears, crazed and scared, _"225 Baker Street. Abandoned video store."_

Scared for a boy he didn't know.

"Morgan!" Hotch calls, dressed in the standard vest and armed for action. "Morgan? What's wrong?"

"I know where he is," he replies slowly, like the words are foreign on his tongue. His eyes widen. "I know where he is!"

"Morgan!" Hotch shouts after him as he sprints over to the nearest patrol car and jumps in. "225 Baker Street, an abandoned video store. Is there one there?" He asks the officer who is next to Hotch, staring at him in similar perplexity.

"Yeah," Officer Rogue answers diligently. "Why?"

"I think it's where the boy is. I'm heading there now. The Unsub should be there, too." Absently, he fingers the handle of his revolver and inhales.

"How?" Officer Rogue demands, Hotch staring at him strangely with a hint of hardness in his face. They were at a dead end, they had no other leads. It was their only chance and it was a hunch from a crazy man. Not that he would ever tell Rogue that.

"I just know," Morgan offers tersely, revving the engine without heed. He didn't wait for the blare of sirens to follow or his superiror's reply because there were things more important that regulation.

A little boy's life. And his friend's sanity.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Police!" He screams, busting in the door. His preferred signature. "FBI! Leonard Mashinski! Are you here?" He hadn't waited for backup. Just parked the car and sped inside, only concerned for the child trapped within. He heard nothing, though.

_Reid._ "Come out, now! It's over, Leonard!" _Please be right. _"Leonard, you need to let Garrett go. Garrett, not Timmy."

"Garrett's not here..." He hears from the corner. Morgan whips around, gun poised to shoot. There in dark corner of the room is the Unsub, Leonard Mashinski, holding a knife. Bloodied knife. _Fuck._

"Leonard, where's Garrett," he orders, gently, not wanting to cause more harm than good. "Where's the boy you kidnapped?"

"I didn't kidnap." He snarls, face twisting. "She took him. That bitch, my ex-wife. She took him away. But, I got him back. Got back _my_ son."

"No, Leonard," he resolves, "Your wife didn't take Timmy..." Leonard shakes his head, deaf to all his reasoning.

"Garrett who tried.." He mumbles, psychosis blocking his mental rationality. "Lyle who cried, Tommy who lied. Garrett, he tried."

Lyle Thompson. Tommy Nothsorn. He killed them both, and one more: Mitchell Haupt. He went nuts, stopped taking his depression medication after his son was shot and killed. Wife divorced him finally, and that was the stessor. He kidnaps boys because he believes their his son, who was taken and not killed. Because the grief of losing him and the anger directed towards his wife was too much, and he kills them out of psychotic rage and guilt.

"Leonard!" He raises his voice, to break him from it. He's off his meds; nothing will get through but the truth. "Your son, Timmy? Your wife didn't take him away. She divorced you after he died."

"No..." The crazed man rasps, and Morgan can see the snap behind his eyes. The window of clarity opening, and it's too painful to handle. "No!"

"Your son was killed in a hunting accident..." He attempts to explain. But Leonard cracks, he sees it, repressed fire and anger raging through the man's eyes.

"No! No! No! She took him! She did! He didn't die, no! No! No!" With a roar, he charges towards Morgan with the knife and he has to shoot, though it's a bitter reality to watch. The man is no longer there, he's been replaced with a father's grief. Whatever he just shot- _killed_, it wasn't human. But was it a monster?

_In the basement._

Without a second thought, he searches for the basement entrance. He finds an old, peeling door and kicks it open, nearly tumbling down the rickety stairs. "Garrett?"

No answer. Not good, not good at all. _Please be okay. Please be okay. For... for Reid's sake, be okay._

He treads farther into the musky dwelling, no light to guide his way. His mind is so muddled, a conflicted mess. Reid knew the Unsub was here. Reid knew the Miller girl. There was time for how, why, or wonder. Because he's been right so far and he also said Garrett was dying.

_Save him. Please._

"Garrett?" Wait, there. If he strains, he can hear it; a low moaning sound. He walks towards it blindly, almost tripping when his foot hits something solid. A body.

"Garret, buddy? It's alright, I'm from the FBI. Your gonna be okay." He promises, but there's no intelligible response, just another low moan. He quickly scoops the bonded boy in his arms bridal styles and starts his ascent. That's right about when the clamber of footsteps and the other armed agents piling in reaches his ears. It takes all of about ten seconds for them to realize Mashinski is down and the situation that has taken place.

"Morgan?" He hears Prentiss shout from the top of the stairs. "You down there?"

"Yeah!" Morgan yells back, hurrying to get to the top. "Get the ambulance ready!"

"Is he alive?" She asks, and he fails to miss the underlining hope in her tone.

"Yeah, but he needs help pronto." It's dark, he can't see the extent to his injuries. But, he knows. "He's been beaten and stabbed. Looks like he's lost a bit of blood and he's semi-conscious, enough to make noise."

The paramedics are there when he arrives, nodding at his condition and taking him from Morgan's arms. He'll be okay, one calls out to the worried officers as they haul him out to the ambulance. Good thing you found him when you did, he mentions, otherwise he might have bled out.

Morgan feels the triumph of a life saved, but under the circumstances, he is pretty damn _freaked_ out. Rogue just assumes he is shaken up after that close call, and pats him on the back, saying _Y__ou done good_. How he got the hunch of where to go doesn't matter to Rogue, since they saved the boy regardless.

But they're profilers. How and why is half of their job description. Prentiss is giving him a look crossed somewhere between astonishment and curiosity, Rossi with his own breed of interest. Hotch's face is carefully hard and blank. He briefly wonders what JJ would think, if she wasn't back at the station. Or what Garcia will say.

"We contacted Garcia on our way here and she said that the video store was owned by Leonard's grandfather's." Prentiss tells him, eyeing him oddly.

_I'm not crazy. _

"How did you know?" Rossi inquires. He can feel Hotch's dark glower boring into him. He was reckless, he was impulsive, but he _knew_. Knew where Garrett was.

_Reid knew. Reid's not crazy. The dead boy told him where he was._

Morgan sighs, feeling more confused and dismayed than he has in while. Rational solutions and proven explanations. That's what their job consists of. But _ghosts_?

"You wouldn't believe me even if I told you," he mutters, brushing past his perplexed teammates and heads for the hotel. Where he has no intention of speaking with anyone until their flight. On the way, he tries redialing one number, one person with just a few more answers than him.

No one picks up.

* * *

_Back at Amaedus..._

Reid is chilled.

He tried laying down, to sleep off some of the cold, to find warmth under the blankets and inside his dreams. But every time he closed his eyes he saw them; Garrett's bloody lips, Rebecca and her missing arm, and so many more. Blood spatter, mouth's open, _Help us, help us._

Giving up, he comes to the sorrowful acceptance that he just isn't allowed to be warm. Not today. Maybe not any day.

Going back to his reading was out of the question, since now he's too rattled up to hold a book straight. The anxiety is eating at him, the cold is biting, and the food a nurse brought in for dinner remains untouched by his bedside. _Meatloaf and mashed potatoes, yum, yum, gag._

He passes the time languidly, thinking of anything under the sun, _especially_ under the sun. Christ, he wants to be warm. Warm like he was when they were here; Garcia and Morgan. He remembers now, their faces, their smiles. He would give anything to see it again, see someone other than his psychiatrist's decisive face or his doctor's professional distance.

However, when the effects of the drugs cleared, he also remembers his fit. The horror on both their faces when he stared off into space, screaming about a dead girl, a dead girl they couldn't save. Yelling at the blood, the disgusting appearance of her flesh wound, and he recalls Garcia shedding tears and Morgan looking at him so strangely, so perturbed.

He scared them, like he scared everyone away. They thinks he's crazy and they won't come back. He blew it, he messed up so bad. They weren't supposed to see that. See the horrible fits he rose, hear the horrible things he said. Now they won't visit anymore. It's so damn frustrating, so disapponiting he wants to cry, but he can't. His tears are frozen; it is too cold for them to water.

Because his eyes met Morgan's - right before he was about to apologize, right before everything went dark. When his caring brown orbs were replaced with Rebecca's souless ones. He knew Morgan saw, even if only a glimpse. Saw his suffering, his ache, his torment. And who wants to share that?

No one has tried, not since _her_. _She_ tried to help him, thought _she_ could save him, and he believed too. Fate, however, was a cruel mistress and showed them both the error of their ways. Now, he doesn't try and knows no one can help him, not even Gideon.

The doctors have given up. They don't say, but he can figure without any words. Their actions speak volumes louder anyway. They are just waiting. Waiting for it all to end. And there is only one way that is happening.

So lost in his thoughts, he actually gasps when a cool breeze sweeps in from no open window. Someone - _something_ is here, and he prays to whatever God left that it isn't Garrett. Oh please, don't be him, he's just a kid, nine-years-old, wants to play baseball, likes to read, loves his mom-

"_You_."

It's not Garrett he discovers, and lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. This voice is a raspy hiss, someone much older who must have smoked from a ripe young age. And it's menacing, a hiss of a word. An angry spirit.

"You," the voice spits with contempt and Reid tentatively leans up to face the man. He's glancing about the room, fists clenched and face twisted into a scowling mess. Dead. Shot through the chest.

"Me?" he squeaks, from his position on the floor. "Who are _you_?"

Cold arms dart out and snatch his throat. Cold, pulse less hands squeeze, and it shouldn't hurt. Not like it does, but he squeezes tighter, and Reid's gasping, struggling to breathe. Clawing at the arm, which he can touch, but isn't really there. He's dead. Dead as a doornail. Morgan shot him.

_Morgan shot him?_

"You," he hisses, leaning down so his lips are just brushing Reid's ear lobe. They're cold as hell and he feels wetness there, blood, has to swallow back the bile just aching to spill out. The smell of death and nicotine assaults his nostrils. "_Told them_. I know you did, don't lie. I can _see _it in your pathetic little mind."

He hates this. How this empathy is a two-way street. How he not only knows the ghost's life story, but ghosts can see _his_. Sense his thoughts, his emotions and know what he knows to some extent. Lying is useless, this man - _Leonard Mashinski, psychotic break, killed three boys, dead son - _knows he tipped off the Morgan, who shot him dead.

"I-" he begins, with what little strength he has under the pressure of crushing fingers. Thing is - nothing comes out. He can't say it, won't, because he can't lie. He won't say he is sorry. Because he isn't. He is happy to the depths of his soul that this man was caught before he harmed another living being. Reid is glad he is dead.

And maybe that thought is a little too loud, because Leonard growls and tosses him to the floor. Reid lands hard, bruising his back and landing on his wrist awkwardly. Coughing, sputtering, trying to get use of his throat back or forget the tightness of hands suffocating.

"You took him away." _Your son is dead, _he tries to convey. _Nothing you do will change that. You're punishing me? What will this prove? _"Now your going to pay."

Reid shivers, not from the cold. The spirit cracks his knuckles, ready to inflict pain. 'Cause that's what people do. They hurt and they hurt until they hurt so much they break. They become so broken that they hurt others, just to have someone else share their pain. To make someone else like them, so maybe they can feel human again. They cut, break, kill and cuss until the tragedy is all but a numb scar. And even in death - in _death_ - some cannot be free from it. The pain is still there, haunting, never healing. Leonard will never get over losing Timmy. Not until he leads his dad into hell by the hand.

Garrett Karou is alive. So, Reid will take the beating. He'll take the pain, because he can handle it. He'll pretend he's numb, pretend he truly is crazy. La la la, these fists aren't real, there is no such thing as ghosts.

Because, like the doctors, he is still waiting. Just waiting... for better, or for worse.

* * *

On the plane back home, way above the mile high club, Morgan tries to sleep to no avail. There is way too much rolling around inside his head for any chance at rest. So, resigned, he just closes his eyes and feebly attempts to ignore the inevitable.

It's JJ who approaches him, lightly nudging his shoulder. He pauses his Ipod and she tells him they need to talk. Which they do, and he knows, but it doesn't make it any easier. Still, he trudges back to where the team is somberly gathered, placing himself between the girls and across from Mr. Bossman himself.

"We're concerned," Prentiss starts out, prompty breaking the ice on the intenisty that's been brewing since the end of the case.

"Morgan," Hotch drawls, deliberately even and poised with his tone. In makes the warning in his eyes all the more intimidating. "You knew where an Unsub was out of the blue, with no prior indication. Now, either you were keeping some important information to yourself, which I highly doubt."

"I wouldn't," he assures quietly, stomach knotting tight, "I would never jeopardize a case like that." Hotch nods then, like he expected that, and he does. He expects a lot from him, a lot more than this.

"We know that," Rossi affirms, reminding him of the team's trust in him. Making it more likely he'll tell the truth. "So, why don't you tell us who tipped you off?"

Tipped him off. Such a vulgar phrase, when he thinks about it. Like getting info from a greasy drug dealer off the streets. Point being, they have already brillantly deduced he found out from a different source. And since he's already in the belly of the beast, let's see if they've braced themselves for this.

"He called me," Morgan answered quietly, and prepared for their inquiring stares, he continues, "Reid did."

Brief silence ensues. No one is quite sure how to react to that, especially so soon to being revealed Reid's fragile status as it was. It is JJ who speaks up first, "Pardon?"

"Reid called me," he explains slowly. "Remember on the scene? The phone call I took?" He sends a sharp glance in Hotch's direction, to which his boss nods, face carefully trained to be opaque. Morgan ignores this and goes on.

"He called me, to tell me," he shakes his head, it is still so unbelievable. "He gave me the exact address and told me 'in the basement.'" Prentiss takes a sharp breath. JJ's eyes widen. "He was really scared and shaken up, so I tried to calm him some, get him to talk to me.

And you wanna know what he said? He told me he's dying, and that I had to hurry and save him. Save Garrett, the kidnapped boy."

"Morgan, what are you implying?" asks Hotch. "What your saying is, well, unheard of and-"

This is where he snaps, where one more word and he can't guarantee what will happen. All his frustration and anger over the last week is mounting to a point, and he doesn't want to do one more thing that will end up on his growing list of regrets.

"How, Hotch? How?" Morgan all but shouts. "How the hell could he have known about Rebecca Miller? Or how to find Garrett Karou? No one contacted him, gave him the details of the case. No one could have known outside of the people working on the case. _How_ could he have known specific things about the murder?"

"There's no rational explanation-" Rossi tries, but Morgan cuts him off.

"Damn right, there's no rational explanation. What part of this was rational to begin with?" _I'm tired of counting him out. Of thinking of him like those doctors do. Reid's not crazy._

Crazy people didn't get it right.

"It doesn't make sense..." Prentiss sighs, pauses as if waiting for an objection. When he doesn't give her one, she goes on softly, "I mean, he had everything right when he _shouldn't_ have. Logically, there is no explanation unless-"

"Unless he really sees ghosts." Morgan says lowly. JJ starts and Prentiss turns to look at him like, _what the hell did you just say? _

"Morgan...that's..." JJ undertakes uncertainly, then closes her mouth, thinking better of it. Not wanting to vex him any further. No one wants to call him out, and sure, he's seen that his whole life. Big, tough black dude, no wants to disagree with him. But there's more than that, there has _always_ been more than that.

"Morgan, you can't seriously believe..." Prentiss jumps in, willing to the one to point out the obvious which no one else will. Even she though falls short, leaving the unfinished accusation hang, awkwardly. No one wants to say it. No one wants this to be real.

"It's unethical," a deep voice finally speaks, and Morgan figured it would be Hotch to grow the balls and try to be the voice of reason. "Unlikely, irration, illogical and-"

"And there's no other way to analyze why he sees dead people! Stop profiling and start listening! Maybe that's crazy, maybe that's not right - but the fact remains, he knew something _real_. Not fake, not imagined. Explain, that, rationally, please-!"

"I don't know!" Hotch growls, silencing his rant. Morgan takes a deep breath and realizes how much he's wasted on that outburst. Everything had been piling up so thick in so little time. Damn it, maybe he is the one who wants answers, but no one here can answer them.

It's his boss's minuscule loss of control that reminds him that he isn't the only one. Rossi looks aged, Prentiss frustrated and absolutely baked, JJ a mess, frazzled and scared. Scared because they don't understand what is happening to their friend.

And they need to start. Fast. Because none of this is getting any easier and he is not going to wait until _he_ starts hearing whispers. Hotch knows, the teams knows, Garcia will throw a _humongous_ hissy fit if they don't do it soon; they need to go visit Reid again. This time, receiving answers. This time, see the soul behind the foggy window.

Fast, since Morgan has this utterly dreadful feeling in the pit of his gut that something nasty is going down. He had the same feeling hunting Tobias Hankel; the same instinct when Reid boarded that train with Ted Byar holding a gun and a mind full of voices; when he went in alone to calm unstable Owen Savage, unarmed.

Morgan sits back, rests his head and closes his eyes again, but can't find peace. The restless tension in the room is thick, and he knows everyone else has similar sentiments. Things will get better, he tells himself, mentally sends it to whatever dark place Reid is in. Tries to transmit it to the rest of the team, but his heart just isn't in it.

_Spencer who tried, Derek who lied. _

He tries his cell phone again. No answer.

* * *

_Dun dun dun! Yes, I know, things are hopefully starting to pick up. I'm not much for action scenes I guess, and maybe I could have drawn this out more, but then it would have been even longer and take away from the main plot, I think. Don't worry: plenty of Unsub action later(: And see that review button? Yeah, you know where it is. Click it._

_Next chapter: The team finds Reid, but not as they expected. Knowing the truth, they learn, is half the battle and burden. _


	5. Chapter V: Inevitable

_I'm sooo sorry for the long wait! I've been sick for a while and had a bit of writer's block with this chapter. I knew where I wanted it to go, I just didn't know how to get there. Also, it once again turned out way longer than I wanted it too. Oh well, what can you do?_

_Please forgive my lateness and enjoy. Reviews would fuel my pace! I apologize for any errors I missed while typing._

_Disclaimer: Me? Own? Ha!_

* * *

The arrival of not one, not two - but six FBI profilers was about as much excitement as Amaedus could handle on that Saturday afternoon. After questioning two nurses, who refused to show them to Spencer's rooms, Hotch began barking orders, calmly (yet dangerously) ordering that they were to see their colleague at once.

A few calls from the front desk and a bunch of blank stares from vacant eyes later, they were sending Fowlers again. _Big freaking surprise,_ Morgan thought blandly. Whatever though, if talking to Fowlers got them away from the soulless eyes and unnerving gazes, so be it.

"Agent Morgan, Garcia. Nice to see you again." _Likewise. Now cut the crap._

"Dr. Follwers," Hotch greets, shaking the man's hand. "Agent Hotchner. Over here is Agent Rossi, Prentiss, and Jareau. I don't mean to be curt, but we're all a bit concerned, only recently finding out about our friend's residency here. Could you tell us why we are not allowed to go see him?"

"About that," Follwers injects, and oh boy, Morgan already knows he isn't going to like this. Rossi and him share a glance, a mutual _oh no_ in their eyes.

"Where is he then?" Garcia probes.

Fowlers take a huge gust of breath and exhales smoothly, like the clean blow from a cigarette. "Spencer is...indisposed at the time being."

He might as well have dropped a bomb on Hiroshima.

"What are you talking about?" JJ cried, giving the man in suit a dangerous one over. There was a mean gleam in her eyes, one that promised to tear a part anyone who came between her and her adopted little brother. Since Henry, the petite blond had taken on quite the fierce maternal attitude.

"Spencer is in the infirmary," Fowlers explained quickly, defensively poising himself as if to escape the seething mother's wrath. William Congreve had it right, when he said, 'Hell hath no fury like scorned.'

"Infirmary?" Prentiss exclaims, growing more and more concerned by the second; the evidence was in her face.

"How did that happen?" inquired Rossi, suspicion hidden behind his tone. Fowlers either missed it or ignored, and Morgan doubted the latter.

"There was an accident," he told them blandly. Morgan can feel himself clench in outrage. _Accident?_

"Accident?" Hotch demands, taking the reins, "How _exactly_, does a supposedly unstable patient, supervised inside a highly guarded and allegedlly safe establishment have an accident?"

"Are you implying something, Agent Hotchner?" Fowlers challenged, stupidly, Morgan thought. Hotch was a turbulent force of intimidation when he wanted to be.

"All I'm saying, that an FBI agent was entrusted to this facility, and as friends and colleagues of his we only wish to have peace of mind knowing he is safe and well where ever he is," he replies, deceptively even, "An incident such as this doesn't appear to be giving us much peace of mind, _does it_, Dr. Fowlers?"

Fowlers visibly paled at Hotch's brutal insinuations, but it was triumph to see a clear reaction in the man. Prentiss was rightly smug and JJ seemed minorly pleased. Morgan, he admits, was enjoying watching the doctor squirm but there were more pressing matters to be addressed.

And not for the first time did Morgan begin to question the unsurprised look of the doctors and regal expectancy to things revolving around Reid and his condition. Not for the first time did Morgan notice the knowing, grim gleam in Fowlers eyes and it made his stomach churn.

"It had been known to happen on occasion," Fowlers argues, growing irritated behind the serene, professional mask, "With patients in a mental facility, you must understand the danger-" Oh _hell_ no. He was not playing _this_ card.

"What did you do to him?" He seethes, louder than he had expected. Something was fishy about this, and how they were trying to play it off as nothing. Rossi had the same suspicions, he could tell, just more self-control and less volume than him. Garcia layed a firm, soothing hand on his arm.

"Agent Morgan, I think it would be wise to watch your tongue." Fowlers head whips around, and he glares at Hotch now, eyes narrowed down to just about the slits, "And be careful with your implications, Mr. Hotchner. I am a civilized man, but I will not stand for such blatant disruption in my hospital," he says in a low tone. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," Rossi replies smoothly, as if the incident never occurred. Morgan was glad for Garcia's hand holding him back, so he didn't run up and smack the man a new one. He was being strangely unhelpful and most definitely too secretive and cocky for his tastes. He knew something, something they didn't, and he didn't like the way he wielded that knowledge.

"Don't worry, sugar," Garcia whispers suddenly, "I'll handle this." Morgan blinks when her hand disappears from his shoulder and the female techician marches right up to the doctor in a confident gait not even Rossi could rival.

"Alright, Mr. Doctor-man, let's get something straight," she starts, deliberately sweet-sounding, "I'm not really much of a field agent, so I'm not much for interrogations, protocol, or any threats or violence. However, you have one of my babies in their hurting, and the only thing standing in between him and myself is you. Now, I'm a fairly patient woman, but if we don't get to see Reid in the next five seconds or so, you'll find your computer so backed up you won't be able to separate your IPU address from you bank account. We clear?"

Fowlers was stunned from the outburst, blinking somewhat dumbly as Garcia continued to dawn a ridiculously malicious smirk Morgan himself was a bit awe-struck at the non-lethal-sounding threat spewing from the tech's mouth. Her discreet weapon of mass destruction in hacking served to get the favorable reaction from Fowlers that no glare from Hotch ever could.

Doc was used to dealing with the government, but he has no idea how to deal with the wrath of she-who-knows-all. _Way to go Baby Girl,_ Morgan grins.

The satisfying look of defeat in Fowlers eyes keeps the smug look on his face all the way to the infirmary. Until they go inside.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

No one knew what to expect when they walked into the room. Prentiss knew that did not exclude her one bit. Technically, not counting Rossi, she had known Reid the least amount of time. But still, the bond they had was tight and unmistakable. She missed his quirky little magic tricks, the statistic bantering that sometimes made her laugh, and the coffee counter conversations she enjoyed with him as the days passed by.

She might have a high tolerance for the morbid or disturbing. As she told JJ once, maybe she just mentalized better than others. For her part, she thinks she just deals with things...calmer and more controlled than most. That didn't make things any easier.

Like now, as her and the team walked into the facility's infirmary in search of their youngest and she nearly gasped upon seeing him. He looked... Garcia hadn't been exaggerating...Reid what had they-!

_What had they done to you?_

A dark, ugly bruise sprouted from his right cheek all the way down to the curve of his jaw. The exposed parts of his arms were covered in similar marks, dotting along his pasty skin in abnormal color contrast. He was _way_ too pale. Sickly. Pained.

_But, not crazy. Reid, please, don't be crazy._

Prentiss, despite her rebellious teen years, had always been a rational person. Back then, maybe she had believed in haunting, angry spirits roaming the world in search of...whatever ghosts wanted. But, that was mostly because her mom didn't believe and was firm on the matter. And the anger she imagined the dead people having was probably her own.

Ghosts. Seeing ghosts. She always figured it was a coping mechanism for people who just needed to deal. Well, whatever Reid was doing it wasn't coping. If there was such a things as haunted...

Everyone has their doubts, their skeletons; the cases where you lose more than you win and the red seems to cut out all colors of the spectrum. Yes, Prentiss has her own fair share of ghosts locked within the closet. Real, though...she just...

She wants to believe him. She really does.

"Oh, Reid, honey!" Garcia is the first to speak, rushing to the younger man's side. Spencer visibly startles at her approach and hs eyes dart back to see who entered his room. She saw the overwhelming recognition filter through his hazel hues and the deafening shock remain silent in his gaze.

"Hey, Pretty Boy," says Morgan, forcing a smile but it's friendly enough. "How ya' doing?"

"Hey..." he tried to speak, but his voice was raspy and he had to clear his throat. "...not bad, I guess. Worse than it looks." It was clear he had no expected any visitors.

"Reid!" JJ exclaims, grinning for absolutely no reason other than the fact that she is seeing him again. She too goes over to his side, and Prentiss knows she is inwardly contemplating just running up and hugging him to never let go. But Reid is so adverse to touch right now, of any kind, and tender most likely from his injuries. So, she settles for a gentle hand on his arm.

He winces, but pushes it back and smiles warmly at her. It's sincere, even considering the pain he must be in. Morphine drip, she notes.

"Reid..." Hotch begins, "it's great to see you again." He even smiles.

"Likewise, sir," is the response.

"Yes..." There is an awkward silence in the room, one that no one is able to fill. Until Rossi jumps in, bold as brass, apparently seeing some confliction in the genius's downcast gaze that maybe we all missed.

"In case you were wondering," his voice was a tad uncertain, like assessing an Unsub, sizing him up for the first time,"In case you were...I'm going out on a limb here, but, that boy? Garrett Karou? We found him on time. He made it to the hospital and is doing just fine."

"Thank God..." Reid acknowlegded blessedly, "Thank God, he didn't bleed out," he thanked in a quieter tone. But the team heard it nonetheless and Hotch's eyebrows shot up.

"Yes," he agreed solemnly, "But we didn't say he was bleeding. Or what kind of injuries he sustained." Reid's eye widened immediately, as if realizing his mistake and his facade faltered.

"I- Well, generally speaking, I-I-" he stuttered, voice trailing off into incoherent whispers. JJ had a look of pure sympathy on her face and reached out tentatively to touch his arm again. He flinched, but remained still as she offered him her gentle touch. He was cold. Ice cold.

"Reid, you made a call to Morgan and you saved that little boy's life," Rossi commended slowly, as if speaking to a tiny child and not a wounded man, "But how, Reid? How did you know?"

Reid cast his eyes down, hair sliding to shield his profile from view. The long locks were another curtain to hide behind, just another excuse to not look and see. The kid needed a haircut, physically and metaphorically.

"I'm not crazy," he snapped suddenly. JJ was startled, retreating her hand as if it burned. Reid's tone was indignant and slightly forlorn.

"Oh, honey, we don't think that," Garcia cooed in a consoling voice, inner mother hen arising. "I think...I think there's way more to this, more than we can understand. There is a multitude of things unseen or unheard of in this world. But, people still believe!" She offered, but Reid remained silent and desolate.

He seemed so lost, and no one quite knew what to say. His ties to the outside world were worn, and trust looked to be about as fragile as his state of health. Everyone was worried enough to take action. But scared enough to avoid making the wrong one. Which left a severe lack of words. Until..

"I believe you," Morgan said suddenly. Six pairs of eyes, including dark, hazel-shaded ones, stared at him. He cleared his throat, meeting each look head-strong, ready. Willing. Believing. Reid was the most shocked of all.

"I believe you," he repeated, licking his dry lips and making his voice sound more confident, "I do Reid. You called me and without you, I would have never saved that boy. I've wracked my brain for the answers and come up empty handed. So," he casts his gaze from person to person and finally unto Reid who does _not_ look away, "I believe you kid."

Prentiss looked from Morgan to Reid then back. He was serious. He was absolutely serious. I mean, Reid, he got it right...he saved Garrett's life...he knew Rebecca Miller...Reid _never_ got it wrong.

Suddenly, she felt like a little girl again. On the playground, where the group of kids were separated. Not by age, not by height, religion or race. It was those who believed and those who didn't. The ones who believed in Santa Claus, and tooth stealing faeries, and monsters in the dark. And those who knew better.

"I believe you, too," Garcia said, putting another gentle hand on his shoulder. She was smiling brightly, a light to extinguish the gloom. Reid glanced at her hand in awe, too shell-shocked for words.

And no one else came forth, no one else came to claim that they believe in the reality of something beyond their comprehension. Prentiss stood back, and tried to remember which kid she had been: the one to believe, or the one who thought they knew better enough not to.

"Reid," it was Hotch again, and she was thankful; their fearless leader always there to take charge when everyone else was so lost, "Whether we believe you or not...we're going to help you. We can make this work. Your not going through this alone anymore."

The young genius's head snapped up with force and he meets Hotch's stare with intensity in his eyes. Prentiss nearly laughs, and it's a great relief from all this tension. Reid looks as if he's trying to form a glare to rival the mighty Hotch's, but he ends up looking like a mildly annoyed eight-year-old.

"It's not negotiable," Rossi informs wryly. JJ, apparently recovering from the burn before smiles lightly and lays another comforting hand on his arm. She's not afraid of the burn anymore, Prentiss realizes. _Am I?_

He's reluctant to open his mouth again, at least, that is what it seems like. Maybe he has the same fear they have, the fear of saying the wrong thing and making everything worse. Immediately, Prentiss curses herself for her selfishness. If her inner workings were this fumbled, imagine what Reid himself must be feeling?

"How about..." she begins, drawing the room's attention towards her, "I come back tomorrow...for a visit?" She smiles for good measure; she needs to show him her sincerity and the things she can't say, the things which are burning out on the tip of her tongue. _Your not crazy. I want to believe you, too._

Reid for his part bites his bottom lip and shakes his head shrugging. Prentiss hears someone sigh - she thinks Hotch, but isn't sure - but she goes on, encouraged, "I'll come over. I'll bring lunch. Coffee." _We can pretend to be normal for a while._

"I can come, too," JJ piped up. "If someone splits some paperwork with me, I'll be free."

"I can," Rossi volunteers.

"Oh! And I can come the day after! I can get Kevin to cover my station if anything comes up!" Garcia adds, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

Hotch nods and looks at Reid directly. Prentiss catches the intensity of it, and she's way passed surprised when Reid actually meets the gaze. There is a silent message being passed from superior to doctor, friend to friend. She thinks it says, _Are you alright? Will you be alright if we help you?_ Maybe to the young genius it looked like, _Do you think we can save you?_

Then Reid breaks the gaze, and Prentiss isn't sure Hotch got his answer. There might be a hint of disappointment in his eyes and she feels her own stomach drop seeing it. Morgan seems to have caught it, too. He's been most persistent in pursuit of what is left of their friend, and she wishes not for the first time she could be as confident in people as he is.

"Reid?" He calls. _It looks bleak,_ she wants to say grimly. _Give it up, _a part of her wants to yell. _It's not getting through. He's too far gone...we're too late..._

"Yeah," was the soft, barely there reply. He looks down again, hair shading his pale face, but now the curtain doesn't seem so thick. "I'd like that a lot." Barely a whisper. Barely an acknowledgement. Just the hint of a smile.

But it was _something._ Something left of him. Something left to hold onto.

The BAU team left later that day, with no real victory, but Prentiss would not call it a defeat. In fact, she thinks that they've gained more than any pshychiatrist could ever hope to in these last few months. If their triumph was any consolation to the staff, well, Fowlers didn't let it show.

Graveyards? Rebellion? Yes, she gave up on that long ago. Reid? Change? _Ghosts?_ ...maybe they'd make a believer out of her yet.

* * *

They're gone. They're gone, it's late, and Reid couldn't sleep if he tried. He misses the warmth of their presence, the honesty concern on their faces, and just seeing real people aside from nurses and doctors. Uncaring and aloof.

They did not give him any sense of peace, nor did they make him feel safe. No, despite major belief, crazy people get afraid. Yeah, he'll admit, even after talking to ghosts for so long, he gets scared. Usually in instances like these, where he was attacked. Because there's always the chance of the assailant coming back. And who would protect him? The doctors?

But, through the lonesome and sleepless months, Reid's found his own way of surviving.

"Hello, Spencer."

To himself, Reid smiled at the familiar voice. Looking up excitedly, he watched a transparent figure fade in and take his perch at the chair next to his bed. Promptly, he feels the knot of muscles in his body relax and lets out a long exhale.

"Hey, Mike," he greeted fondly, smiling genuinely for the first time in what felt like days.

Mike was a special kind of spirit, a rare friend in his darkened times. His own vigilante, Reid supposes. If you are so tempted to ask, it started months ago, during his first two months here, after a particularly brutal run in with an enraged deceased...

_The pain is exceeding his mind's ability to process. His arms sting with malicious ache and he wants to groan, but his body is too exhausted to even make the sound. Sighing, he buries his head in his burning appendages and wished that abusive dads could die twice. Maybe then Lance Gerate would have been serving his sentence in hell for beating his two adorable children instead of beating the crap out of him._

_"Are you alright, son?" A deep voice asks, from out of the dark. Cautiously, Reid finds it safe enough after a few moments of nothing but calm and silence to open his eyes._

_What greets him isn't Lance or a doctor, but not so far off. It's an even taller, even stronger looking black man dressed in a police uniform. Instinctively, Reid questions why the spirit has arrived and now of all times. Wary of another attack, he decided to determine whether this ghost is a threat or not so he can stop shivering and suck it up._

_"Yeah," he breathes, gingerly pinching the wound on his arm, "I think so." He eyes the officer carefully, speaking in a raspy voice, "Unless you plan on smacking me around, too."_

_The older man lets out a bellowing laugh, chuckles which no one could hear but himself booming off the walls. He shook his head, grasping his chest(which was covered in dried blood and a bullet hole) as if the force of laughter hurt._

_"Oh Lordy," he sighs, "even in a uniform people think you gots some trouble brewing in ya'."_

_Reid snorts humorlessly, giving him a dry glare, "Sure, pick on the scrawny white boy."_

_This causes the man to laugh again shortly, before he speaks again, "Nah, but with all honesty, I have no ill intentions, boy. You don't have to worry none." He tells Reid assuredly._

_Reid stares warily towards the stranger, and searches his mind for any violence or searing ferocity locked within the spirit's mind. When he finds nothing, not one speck of threat through the empathy link, he allows himself to relax. At least a little._

_"You okay?" _

_Okay? Reid wants to laugh. Okay? No. He was the farthest things from okay. Statistically, him being okay under these circumstances was impossible. And that probability wasn't from a book. "Okay? I just got beat down by a man long dead and I'm still wondering if it even real, between being terrified it will happen again. Other than that and being hungry, exhausted, and emotionally drained..." He took a deep breath and smiled meekly, "I'm fine."_

_It was a long while before the ghost cop spoke again._

_"Why don't you at least get some sleep?" he suggested, eyes wandering over Reid's fatigued form. "You look like death," he said, then laughed at the irony in the comment. Reid quirked a smile too, but it was short lived._

_"I can't..." he breathed, shutting his eyes and shuddering at what he saw. Quickly, he reopened them and exhaled shakily, "I..."_

_"Every time you shut your eyes, he's there? Isn't he?" The man supplied knowingly. Reid looked up shocked at the black man's frowning face and nodded once, turning away without a word. He couldn't sleep. He was afraid. This man took a bullet and still had the courage to laugh about it. He should be ashamed._

_"There's no shame in fear, son," the man asserted softly, feeling his contempt through the empathy, "When I went down, my first thoughts were, 'Oh shit. I'm going to die.' And I can assure you, it wasn't what I wanted. But it happened all the same, and I won't lie and say I wasn't scared as hell."_

_Reid didn't reply, and just sighed lowly, shifting in his perch on the floor. His eyes were so heavy he could pass out right here on hardwood. He had absolutely no intention of moving. Or falling asleep. Until..._

_"How 'bout I look after you tonight?" The officer abruptly proposed, offering Reid what solace he could. Reid for one, couldn't quite comprehend the offer at first, since it just seemed so preposterous in his mind._

_"Huh?" he mumbled, for lack of sleep and sanity on his part._

_"I could stay up and watch over you," the ghost told him taking a seat on a low wooden stool a few feet away, "'Till morning. I promise, I won't leave. And I won't let nothin' get ya'."_

_Reid stared at the spirit, leery and tired. God, he was so tired. And for his part, Reid could feel the sincerity and concern radiating from the man's whole-hearted core. This empathy went two ways, he reminded himself. While this sucked on most occasions, it also helped him weed out the angry from the harmful, the pleasant from the sad._

_Not that ghosts didn't have a right to be angry. He would be a little peeved too had he been dead. That was still no excuse to take it out on the innocent medium._

_But Reid had not slept in days. The insomnia had set in for almost two months now, and his body was still in the exhausting process of learning to run on little to no sleep. This... His body still shuddered at the memory of his beating. He wasn't quite used to that either._

_"You will?" It's a subtle, small-voiced answer. Like it came from a tiny child wondering if he was in trouble or not. Because right now he's no better than a tiny child. He was just as helpless as little Mackenzie and Mattie from Lance Gerate's rage and it twisted his gut to know just how vulnerable he was in the face of death. Literally._

_So, it was an unbelivably welcome solace to be offered some protection, some peace of mind from a lingering soul. Not all the dead were bad. Most were just angry._

_"I will," the man swore, making the catholic sign across his chest, "I promise."_

_With that, Reid gave the ghost officer one last weary glance before nodding. His head rolled limply back onto the wall in his immense struggle not to fall asleep on spot and the old ghost chuckled._

_"Your a one-of-kind Spencer, I can see that off the back," he remarked._

_Reid had no energy to open his eyes, but mustered the strength to mutter, "You know my name I see. Wha' 'bout you?"_

_The officer smiled at him, he knew even with his eyes closed. A familiar, warm and gentle smile which he had actually seen many times before; just on a different face._

_"Me? The name's Michael. Michael Morgan."_

And since that night, whenever the pain came from an untimely ghost, and the fear and anxiety was so potent, Michael would come and visit him. They would talk for long hours about non-bloody things and pleasant, not-horrible subjects. Reid relayed to them what he knew of his wife, his daughters, and in detail told him all he knew of his son and the adventures they shared. It was small exchange for a good nights rest.

Michael, for his part, whole-heatedly enjoyed his company and exulted in hearing about the family he left behind. Though some things left him sore, he was overall exceedingly proud of Derek. He told Spencer he was proud of him, too.

Which made him feel about as good as anything did these days.

So, for this night, Michael came and they talked a bit with scarce effort on Reid's part. Michael noticed this, and failed not to comment. "I can sense your anxiety, Spencer. And not just from today. You're scared."

Reid didn't grace him with a reply, just buried his face in his hands miserably.

"Ah, son," Michael sighed, patting him on his shuddering back, "Derek and your team - they wanna help. But you gotta let 'em. Now, you can't lie boy, and I know that sucks but bear with me. I can feel it deep inside ya'. You _want_ to be saved, you want to let someone in. You just forgot how."

"It's not just that," he rasped, taking a withering breath. "I don't want to hurt them," Reid confessed with more emotion that he hoped to garner.

"I know, but..." The elder Morgan struggled to find the words, "Son, what you see...well hey, if I were alive I wouldn't believe. It's the sad truth, but yeah, I'd prolly be callin' ya' crazy too." Reid snorted. "But, my boy there? And that tech girl? They believe you. And the others? They so desperately want to. That's more than anyone has given you in a long time. I know you want out; not just from here, but the dark place you've got yourself all locked up in. You gotta remember, you might not be so willing to believe if it wasn't you yourself. You have to show them."

Reid gulped, feeling tears build at the edge of his eyes. He was sick of that.

"I know," he hiccuped.

Mike squeezed his shoulder with no force, trying to give warmth he could no longer offer. It was the greatest comfort he'd felt all day.

"But, I don't want to." Reid couldn't stop the words, couldn't stop spilling his guts. Since the dead always kept secrets.

"Because I'll have to show them to make them believe." And the mere thought of it made his chest constrict. They had seen so much already. _So had he. _They didn't deserved this.

_Neither did you, _Mike sent him empathetically.

"They're family, son," Mike told him helplessly, shrugging. "Ghosts? I didn't know much 'bout them 'till I died. But family? Now, that I know. And you can't get rid of 'em if you try, which you _have._ And the thing about family? They don't go runnin' like doctors you barely know. They share the pain because they care 'bout ya'. It's inevitable."

Reid looked down at his bandaged arms and back at Mike then down again. A bitter smiled formed at his face, he couldn't keep it down. He couldn't fight back the selfish joy his friend's reassurance brought and couldn't stop the horrid dread from deteriorating just the slightest.

"They'll be back," he said suddely, softly, their promises echoing in his head.

"It's inevitable," Mike repeated certainly. Reid knew this. And he could deny or cry or argue as much as he like. But he's been cooped up in this dark space for too long already.

And he wanted out.

* * *

_Yeah, I changed point of views from Morgan to Prentiss before going on to Reid. I just wanted to show it from different persepctives. Hope I'm not butchering their personalities too much!_

_Honestly, I'm not too satsified with this one. I think it was too long and it was hard writing it. Except the last part with Reid, I'm actually pretty happy with that. Tell me what you think? Review button is down there! Use it!_


	6. Chapter VI: Pieces on a Chessboard

_Sorry for the lateness on this! I have but one excuse: standardised testing is a bitch in school:P_

_Not one of my best, and certainly shorter than most, please bare with me this chapter. It leads up to something interesting, I swear! Also, there is one section you might not understand so read the comments after the story for an explanation then. _

_Reviewers have been so kind! I have never been so flattered with some of the responses I've been getting! You all make my day! So, without further adieu..._

_Disclaimer: Me? Own? Pft._

* * *

"Knight moves in to take out the Queen. Checkmate in four moves," Reid declared.

No response. The board slowly changed however, and Reid looked upon this with a puzzled face.

"Hm. Using _your _knight to take out two pawns and directly block my proceeding. In turn, you sacrifice the knight, but your queen has the chance to escape and still protect the king." He bit the inside of his cheek, concentrating, "How strategic."

The board moved again, as Reid spoke lowly to his adversary, and five moves later, things were beginning to go as he predicted. It just had taken a few more turns that he initially thought.

A large grin spilt itself across Reid's face. It had been a long time since such a challenge had presented thyself. "Oh, you are a worthy opponent, sir," he admitted. "But, I'm afraid you'll have to do better than that." He spoke smugly, moving his rook in for the kill.

Something like laughter might have erupted from the spectre's mouth, for Reid soon found himself engrossed in triumphant laughter. "Haha. Yes, I am certain in a real medieval battle, your knight could have easily destroyed my rook strategy...oh? A rematch? Well...not like I have anything better to kill time." He smiled, chuckling, "Loser resets the board."

To the naked eyes and naive ears, it would have been an innocent misconstruing. Anyone seeing this, would assume it was all a carefully executed joke. Or even a fitful play, in a bout of loneliness. Certainly, most know of the horrible solitary and adverse mental effects being in such an institution causes. Stockholm syndrome, paranoia, sleeping disorders...

To anyone who didn't know any better, it would be nothing.

Except one by one, the pieces began to move back into place. Back into their original spots, some invisible force gathering them up and resetting the board for a rematch. It would be construed as normal - except there were no hands, no flesh; just air. Whatever Reid saw, no one else could.

"You want to switch colors?" he asked.

There was seemingly no reply, but Reid himself heard one anyway.

"Yeah," he agreed, nodding. "Black does suit me more, I guess. Now, shall we begin, Mr. Roderick Johansen?"

* * *

Jean looked away from the screen, shuddering. She was chilled, hairs on the back of her necks and arms stiff with fright. Only a month here, and she was felt ready to take off sick. When Dr. Fowlers had said he had an extra, special task for her which would give her a bonus in her paycheck, she had been thrilled. Even when they said she would be routinely oversee and dangerous patient who was only labeled as _classified, _she was still untethered.

When she asked Dr. Fowlers why this patient had to be watched so often and guarded so safely, all he had said in reply was that there was constant danger to the patient himself and others around him. That is why we watched from a recording camera in the room, rather than actually be there.

Now, she understood the grim knowing in his tone. God, she was so stupid to assume this would be easy. So stupid...

She can't look anymore. She turns away from the hands that aren't there, the flesh they wasn't supposed to be real. But the proof was all there, and she has half a mind to report it to the government and get out with her sanity in tact. Whatever humanity she has in her stops her. Because as she watches, she sees that poor, poor young man's pain, and truly, from the depths of her heart, she pities him.

But, this is just too much. Nurse Jean turns away, hand covering her mouth in aghast, and she emits a soft whimper of despair. Another nurse, an older, more experienced woman name Brandy who she befriend comes to her side and consoles her.

"It'll be alright," she assured, eyes tired. Nurse Brandy forces a smile, "It gets easier."

The comforting words only make her want to cry. As she watches, she imagines, and sometimes she can almost see the deathly figures that come again and again to haunt the young man's mind. Alas, her descriptions, horrible as they can sometimes be, must be nothing compared to the original.

And while her itty-bitty heart weeps for the unfortunate man, she cannot bring herself to get close enough to actually meet him and give her condolences. She doesn't want to end up like _her,_ does she?

* * *

It is by the third day his friends come to visit him that Reid finally begins to feel some semblance of normalcy.

Prentiss and J.J. shuffled into the room with bags of Thai takeout and Starbucks. It's like a gift from Heaven itself.

"Coffee," he groans, his eyes lighting up like a child's. "Real food, thank God."

The two of them laugh, placing the food down in front of him. "What, the menu here is as bad as the service?" JJ jokes.

"You have no idea," Reid scoffs, rolling his eyes. For once, his appetite is here, thriving and thristing. He remembers just how long it has been since he has actually eaten.

He digs in unceremoniously, and they don't seem to mind, in fact, their elation is palpable. Guess he was finally starting to resemble his old self. Honestly? He felt better today. In preparation for their visit, he had showered and tried to look as presentable as possible. Shaving, for one, did a tremendous wonder on his face.

And even the spirits, impeccable timing and horrible omens they consist of, did not bother him at all today! The only visitor he had was one Roderick Johansen, and the only conflict they had was on the chess board. He was a polite and refined, well-educated aristrocrat and a damn good chess player. Shame, he died all the way back in 1945.

Nevertheless, it was simply in lesser terms, a whole-hearted good day. So good, in fact, he was anticipating the fall. It was the same whenever he got high, back when he was still addicted to the venom of the drugs. They made him feel so numb, for forgetful, so happy only because he could not feel a thing; but when it all wore off, he would crash, and everything would be worse than before.

All good things came to end. But just because today went bad, well...he was regaining some semblance of hope. At least, for some happiness. And at this point, it was all he could ever ask for. So, things go bad today? Well, maybe they'll get better tomorrow.

He doesn't know what has gotten into him today. He is being such a optimist, it's uncanny. Maybe Mr. Rodgers had possessed him or something...And when he bursts out laughing from the inside joke, he just has to tell JJ and Prentiss, and they too laugh out loud too.

Strange, he knows. His inner pessimist is still there, waiting. For right now, maybe the little voice telling him everything is wrong will just shut up and enjoy the coffee too. At least for a little while...

* * *

_Mama was a kind soul, raised wrong, but sweet nonetheless. Like a flower trying it's hardest to bloom in the desert._

_Her auburn hair like waves of silk tickled his nose. His head was burrowed into her shoulder, tired, baby eyes drooping._

_She kissed his forehead then, so softly; like he was something precious. A gentle demeanor his dad could never possess._

_"Time to lay down," she cooed, placing him in the playpen located directly in the center of the room. _

_She smiled down at him then, and it was the most loving image he has in his memories. "Sweet dreams, honey."_

_His eyes close slowly, but sleep was short in coming. The sound of crying awoke him sometime later, but he failed to open his eyes, wondering if it was only a dream. Soon after, the sounds stopped, and curiously he opened his eyes._

_It was Mama, standing but a few feet away from his crib. Her back was turned, and he could not see what she was doing. Confused, his infant hands reached up to grab the secure bars of the playpen to help him sit up. Wanting to call out to her, he opened his mouth to cry-_

_A loud boom erupted through the room and he shrieked. Bursts of red, like the color from his paint set, flew from Mama's head. She fell then, first to her knees, and then to the side. Her pretty green eyes were closed. Her forehead was red and sticky. He didn't know what the object still grasped limply in her hand was, and wondered why it was so loud and made his head hurt._

_He could maybe start to cry. But his dad would not be home for hours and his older sister was at school. No one would hear him, except the neighbors maybe on their left side, and then they would complain to Dad. Who would get all mean and cranky, and he did not want to be punished._

_So, he sat up in his playpen and waited for his blood-soaked mommy to wake up and for the odd ringing in his ears to go away..._

_

* * *

_

On the sixth day, unlucky number six, JJ came and visited with Morgan.

On her way to a bathroom break, she bumped into a nurse and accidentally knocked the papers she was carting out of the startled woman's hands.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she apologized and bent down to help the nurse retrieve her load.

"O-oh, it's fine," the nurse waved off, stuttering through her slightly forced laugh. JJ stood, puzzled, and handed a few of the papers to the nurse...Jean. Something more than the fall had startled her.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

Nurse Jean's eyes darted from her to the hallway in a mildly panicked gesture, "N-nothing. Sorry to waste your time, ma'am."

"Hang on," JJ persisted. "Is it my friend that bothers you? The one I come and visit? Spencer Reid?"

The nurse paled, biting her lip and clutching the papers to her chest like a vice. JJ knew she had hit the mark on this one. Now she wanted to know _why._

"Why?" she demanded. "Why does he scare you so much?"

"Strange things..." Nurse Jean murmured in a strained voice, as if secretly betraying some deep, dark conspiracy. "...happen around him. Honestly I do not know him but I've seen things...heard rumors."

"Well, why don't you get to know him yourself? And then you'd see the truth," JJ relented.

But to her dismay, the nurse shook her head looking almost...frightened? "I can't."

"Why not?"

"Things...happen to people who get close to him..." Nurse Jean rasped quietly.

"What are you talking about?" JJ questions in a harsh whisper.

Nurse Jean glances cautiously back and forth, as if expecting someone to pop out and rip her lips off for opening them. "Well, it's just...your friend had another psychiatrist when he first came here. At first, the progress was great. But she began to...change."

"Change?" JJ didn't understand. "What do you mean?"

Jean bit her lip, and shrugged. "I can't tell you much else. I'm sorry." She turned to leave, but JJ clasped her on the shoulder lightly.

She smiled, "Thanks. I know you went out on a limb here." The nurse nodded and smiled back.

"You seem like a nice person," she admitted. JJ let her go, but not without one final question.

"But if you could, could you maybe just...give me a name? Please? And maybe an address?" Jean considered this, eyes her uncertainly. "Please...I really want to help my friend."

Jean sighed, hesitant, but ultimately willing to help her help Reid. "The rumors say her name is Margo Clover," she relayed. "And as for her address..." Her voice took on a grim hue, "She's a patient here now. Room 309, I think." She shrugged. "Hope you find what your looking for."

With that, she left. Leaving JJ with a hunch, and a need to visit Room 309.

* * *

It did not take long for Morgan, after JJ relaying her story, to adamantly conclude that they had to go and see this woman for themselves. He figured they could slip in easy enough, so long as they were discreet and no one was else was snooping around.

"What if we get caught?" JJ asked.

"We're FBI JJ, I'm sure we can make up some shit about it being in our jurisdiction." Morgan shrugged, grinning, "Besides, you're a media expert. You should be used to lying by now."

JJ's face cracked a smirk and she nodded curtly, and followed him into the stairway. The elevator would be much quicker to the third floor, but the stairs were less noticeable.

Room 309 looks like any other. Then again, so had Reid's when he first layed eyes on the plainly placed door. He wondered what this woman's case was, and how it connected to their friend.

_Well,_ his mind decided, _only one way to find out._

JJ knocked, politely inquiring, "Hello? Ms. Clover?"

There is a pregnant pause, before a muffled voice answers from the other side. "Who is there?"

Her voice is lucid and composed, as far as Morgan can tell. "Um...you don't know us, but we wish to speak with you. We're from the FBI. May we come in?"

Another long pause, and maybe, he thinks, she shouldn't have mentioned FBI. Perhaps they had freaked her out and now she would recoil and turn them away. And Morgan really would detest doing this the hard way.

"Yes," came the answer finally. Surprised, Morgan shrugged and followed the petite blond into the unknown quarters and all that inhabited them.

The lights were dimmed, and the room was neat. There was a bed, a desk with many journals and writing splattered across the top. A torn pillow tossed aside in the corner - and he doesn't want to know - but besides that, the bed is tidy. There is even a small couch directly across from a cozy looking TV set, where a middle-aged woman is sitting, sipping a cup of tea.

"Margo Clover?" She nods in affirmative.

"Well, it seems you know me," she says, taking a drink from her elegant cup. "But, I do not know your names."

"Oh." JJ smiled kindly, "I'm Agent Jareau, and this is Agent Morgan. Please to meet you."

"Quite." But her tone eludes, _T__hat might be debatable._ Morgan can't help but kind of like the woman already.

"You used to a psychiatrist, right?" JJ asked, "I mean, what happened?"

That is when Margo's eyes darkened and abruptly, her entire appearance changed. Her demeanor went sour and her eyes twisted and torn within one another until her pure, green eyes were muddled puddles of fog. He had seen that exact stare before...

_In Reid._

"Your FBI, no?" She scoffed, like she already guessed, "You must be Dr. Reid's teammates from the BAU."

"Yeah," Morgan confirmed. "You were...a friend of his once?"

Suddenly, Morgan is not so sure he'll like this woman anymore. Suddenly, all the elegance and refinement dissipates and recoils back into the depths of the wide intelligence she contained. And what was left was...almost vacant. Some emotion akin to anger, akin to aghast, akin to remorse - but is not quite either one.

Because all at once, it is like her whole demeanor changes. Such a drastic onslaught of change must be not so unheard of in mental health patients. But, with her...Morgan had seen that look before. He freaking _knows_ it.

"That boy," she scowled, and Morgan wanted to be mad at her for the cold tone of voice she used, but then he noticed the slight quiver of fear in her eyes, "That boy is the devil's son."

_To be continued..._

_

* * *

_

Yeah, this chapters a little choppy and quite possibly not so good. The only part I really loved was the part in italics.

Let me elaborate on that. It was a flashback from a future Unsubs past; as you can deduce, his mother's suicide. I'll tell you guys right off the back, I loved writing this guy and his back story. Hopefully, you'll all love him too(:

And hopefully, next chapter will be better. I will shed some light onto Margo Clover's relationship with Reid and the connection there. Fear not, I will provail in overcoming my haphazard updating! So long as people remain so generous with their reviewing!


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